I
BEULAH ~ A REMINISCENCE
When I was about ten years old, I spent time in the summer and in the summers that followed up at what we called ‘the farm.’ The farm was just north of Bellingham Washington and we would drive up from our place in Portland Oregon so that my mom could visit with her sister and so that my dad could connect with farm life, something he really savored from his childhood.
Ed and Ed, brothers-in-law, were close.‘The farm’ was the dairy farm of my Uncle Ed and Aunt Ellen and their son, John. John, my cousin, was twelve years older than I –my big brother. This big brother of mine was a mountain climber and pretty well connected with the mountain-climbing community of the Pacific Northwest. So one summer he arrived home from mountain climbing with a proposal: John and Ed Claus would produce a pack string and pack in some mountain climbers and their gear from Portland to the south so that they could experience climbing Mount Baker and Mount Shukshan and the Border Peaks—all of which were located up near the Canadian line in northern Washington.
Ed and John had some horses and a lot of experience. But they needed more horse stock; they needed a pack string. That summer, it must have been June, John and his father Ed chatted up folks and scanned the local papers for any horses for sale. When they traveled around Whatcom County to look at horses, I tagged along.Their efforts produced at least three more horses than what they had—and perhaps more. I remember Barron and Beulah.
Barron was a jokester, but a good horse. He was easy to ride; I rode him from time to time. But he was also a goof-ball. Fill up a water tank with good clean water and Barron would walk over when all was finished. He would bend over to sniff and then blow out a big lungful of air upon the water’s surface. And then, standing in mud or dirt, he would straighten up and with a dirt or mud-filled hoof, Barron would begin to paw the water in the tank, roiling it up until he had made nice brown clouds. Oh, come on: The clown knew what he was doing.
Beulah seemed to be a most calm and tractable horse when we arrived to take a look. The horse was with a couple of others in a nice, lush pasture. We stood at the fence as the son of the owner approached the horse. Beulah had no halter. The horse stood quietly as the lanky teen slipped a lead rope around the neck and then up close to the head. Then they began walking, this way and that, the horse quietly plodding behind the boy and changing directions when he did. That sealed the deal. Beulah would be part of the pack string to pack in the Mazamas—the well-known climbing club from Portland.
There was another horse at that time and also later: Red. Red may have been one of the horses that the Claus family purchased at this time. Red was a cow horse, well mannered, lively, obedient. He could run fast and also cut out cows on a free reign. Red had some Quarter Horse in him. I rode Red when I was a bit older, and both my dad and I liked him a lot. Red as a cutting horse was a happy discovery, but Beulah was the real surprise.
Beulah was broke to lead, but not to pack nor to ride. Both father and son soon found that out. Also, the horse would not stand tied. Uncle Ed and John would tie her up to the big planks that served as a pen for the Claus farm bull that I had named as Bronson. Beulah was powerful and she put her back into it. Halters were broken as well as lead ropes. A slip rope around the girth of the horse and then tied to the fence also failed miserably.
It was time for the Running W. The W was a trip-rope setup. When the horse would move off and began to gather speed, father or son would say “Whoa” and then get set and pull on the rope. With ropes wrapped around both forefeet, the horse was supposed to trip and fall and learn to stop at the command. No dice. I remember standing in the cow pen by the water tank, close to the bull pen and not far from the old weathered boards of a hog pen as Beulah happily pulled Uncle Ed and then, I suppose, both Ed and John down the length of the large pen and towards open pasture. It was like the horse was plowing. Father and son, in memory, were sort of water skiing on dry dirt and cow pies!
I do not remember exactly what happened to Beulah, but we can all surmise. Maybe they found a buyer—at least I hope so. A young boy in love with the farm in the summer season and not used to the downsides of farm life, I suppose, would not be told. What I do know is that father and son managed to pull the string together. Out of the wash house with its smell of Ivory soap and where they were stored came cross-tree pack saddles and panniers. Horses were loaded up the ramp and into the bed of the old green International two-ton. Somewhere at the trail-head, the diamond hitch was thrown over packsaddles and eighteen or so Mazama Club climbers were successfully packed into the Northern Cascades for their two-week stay.
Napoleon led the string. This large chestnut horse, possessed of a great deal of common sense, was slow to panic. He had seen most everything and he was strong. Nappy was the lynch-pin of the whole adventure.
Later I would ride with John and Dad on trails close to the Lummi Island ferry. I would ride on Red and when we cantered make sure that this fine horse would not take the bit in his teeth and slowly extend things into a head-long gallop. I would watch Barron swimming in the waters of the Sound and sit behind John riding bareback down the lane at the farm on Lady. John would show me that he had to keep her head up to prevent the horse from bucking, which he did—after letting her show me just a little.
And then there was Lady and Vicky—our American Saddlebred half-sisters back in Portland. Lady was initially named Esther, but that was Mom’s name, so she became Lady. Dad and I would ride the trails and fire roads in the 5000 acre Forest Park of the City of Portland. The horses would stop at small road-side, clear water springs and drink; and then often we would turn up a deer trail to ride the hills.
My father would look at Lady from time to time and then say to me, like perhaps he were a Marshal Dillon or a Ben Cartwright: “that’s a fine horse you’ve got there, son.” And then I would nod—and smile.
MISS JESSIE LEWIS AND HER STUDIO
Jessie L. Lewis: April 8, 1888 – August 29, 1964
How old was I? Perhaps I was six or seven, when my mother drove the two of us across Portland’s Broadway Bridge to the piano studio of Miss Jessie L. Lewis. Her place was a spacious bungalow with an expansive, private upper story. On the main floor it presented both a large living room—big enough for two Steinway grand pianos, Greco-Roman sculptures and paintings along with an extensive music library—and a proper parlor or drawing room. No one ever sat in the parlor, because just before the large portal leading in, two soft chairs and a nice couch served as a waiting room.
Gary, a large high school pupil at least two or three years older than I with his shock of red hair, sat for his lesson just ahead of me; his technique and focus were intimidating as the notes, mostly Chopin as I recall, flowed across the room.
But that was later. In all, I spent eight years of which perhaps six or seven (surely six) measured successful progress.
The journey began that first afternoon when the Backstrand’s Buick pulled up to the curb at 513 North Dixon Street. In all those years, Miss Lewis never changed. I say this despite obvious changes to her health—large, ominous physical changes—but her slim form remained unaltered, her pale white skin, her wrists and forearms with almost pellucid blue veins running their course under the surface bulging modestly with powerful tendons—these things along with her white hair, her aquiline facial features, and her even-toned penetrating voice; these things persisted.
Miss Lewis met us at the piano. I believe I was instructed to sit at the piano, the second Steinway in the room. The first was for concerts; the second was for lessons. My mother, nearby in a chair, watched as Miss Lewis asked me to extend my hand. All these years and it remains a vivid memory. She instructed me to turn my right hand palms up. Then, with a surprising, firm grasp, she plied her hands along mine, feeling my extended fingers, manipulating the palm, my thumb.
“Baby fat.”
That was the verdict. “Baby fat.” She squeezed my thumb and the heel of my hand, probing. I looked at my hand. It looked all right to me, although, in her grasp, it was assuming a different shape until she released a slightly reddened hand.
My mother watched the proceedings. These I believe included placing both hands on the keys and perhaps striking a note or two. Miss Lewis reached towards the keyboard and extended a thin, foot-long, polished hickory stick which she placed under my wrists. She moved them up slightly and then removed the stick when she felt the heaviness of my wrists disappear. She may also may told me to sit up straight and stretch my fingers out on the keyboard to see my reach, exposing my fingers the way that Jessie Lewis first might see them, year after year, sitting to my right.
I sensed in my mother’s calm observation that all of this was okay. I also perceived the approach of an impending decision, something beyond my grasp. We waited. I believe that the two of them eventually chatted. There may have been questions teacher to potential pupil. If so, I responded properly. There had been horseback riding lessons earlier and these had been difficult. I remember standing after one of them in the breezeway at our home with both of my parents. I looked down at the box where the milk bottles were placed and then admitted that I did not want to continue. The horse was big and I was at eye level with one of the metal stirrups. I got nervous before and during the lessons; I was not ready. My parents at that time did a wonderful job of listening to my concerns.
But piano lessons were different. For some unexplained reason, I was desirous of the keyboard. My anxiety with riding on large horses I exchanged for the sweaty finger and palm anxiety of sitting on the stairs leading up just inside the entrance of Miss Lewis’ house; sitting there all dressed up with a variety of kids perched on the steps, waiting, with me, for their turn for mostly memorized pieces to be sometimes hammered out, sometimes deftly played into the stuffy, closed space of Miss Lewis’ two-piano living room, chairs all around, flushed faces in both living and drawing rooms on a Sunday afternoon in May. Recital time, year after year, prepared me for a lifetime, mostly alone, of placing my hands on the keys, palms down, where once there had been “baby fat.” One time, returning years later during my break in college, Mom and I had visited Miss Lewis, just to say hello. She was struggling then, but still teaching, still alert, still capable of ram-rod straight posture, still in her place to the right of the piano bench.
“Put your hands on the keys,” Jessie said. Her eyes were hidden now behind dark glasses to hide one of her afflictions: blindness. Her voice, however, was the same. I had been playing jazz, by ear, night after night after hours of studying at Carleton College in Minnesota--my solitary habit. I struck a chord. I remember doing very little else. After all, the only music that mattered in the Jessie L. Lewis Music Studio was classical.
I stuck the chord and she responded.
“Oh, good. You’ve been playing. You still have your touch.”
***
The piano was a Kinze. It has been present first as a reality in childhood when it graced the near corner of our living room big enough to accommodate its parlor grand bulk with little or no fanfare, and then later, as a shadow presence in memory. It had a mellow sound and was the first place where I began playing by ear. By that time, I had plenty of technique, but no knowledge of harmonics or music theory and little interest in reading musical scores. I had never seen a chart. I tried this and that and worked on tunes that I gleaned from the AM radio to which I often fell asleep. Ramsay, Red Holt, Oscar, Errol became my audiophile mentors along with Cannonball, Trane, Zoot, Gerry Mulligan…. KSL, fifty thousand watts, came in clear as a bell most nights all the way from Salt Lake City, jazz tunes swaying into the night as I fell asleep. They signed off at two mountain time but mostly I was already asleep until at five Pacific, the station woke me up blaring with its first sounds and the farm report.
The Kinze parlor grand came from Grandmother Dena Turnquist of Bellingham Washington. I remember the piano in Grandma Turnquist’s living room with some flowery material and perhaps a vase residing on its closed lid. I do not remember Grandma playing. But Aunt Ellen at the nearby farm had an upright which she played and my mother, when the piano arrived, played as well. It was part of their heritage. Mom often played hymns when she had given up hoping that we would be on time for the evening service at church. She played hymns well. But mostly, properly installed, the parlor grand was mine. Grandma Turnquist died suddenly at 70 of a heart attack, passing peacefully while sitting in a chair close to the stairway and to the entrance of the kitchen where she cooked and baked so often. She already had spoken with Mom about the piano. Mom asked me if we had a piano would I be interested in taking lessons. I thought so. It was a wonderful gift for Grandma T. to make; it sealed the deal of luring me into music making of one sort or another.
Grandma visited at least once after the piano arrived. Perhaps I played. Perhaps she played or Mom played. What I do remember is playing freely after the lessons ended. Playing while in high school and then in college. Playing sounds that ruffled my father’s conception of what should be played, but playing on nevertheless. It became my locus. It became my rebellion, my source of exploration, my place of unfolding identity, my musical ground of being.
***
Miss Lewis had cats—two slinky, gray, mysterious Siamese cats that sometimes, like my dogs do now, showed up, drawn in by activity or just the sound, often just beyond the pedals of the Lewis Steinway practice piano. The two also could be seen, during lessons, lounging under the concert Steinway to my left, where I would glance from time to time to see one or the other stretched out or curled to lick paws. They were diffident when it came to petting while waiting for my turn—making slight, elusive appearances by the soft chairs or from behind stacks of musical literature close by. They were my distraction, telling me as a child that the seriousness of classical music framed by Miss Lewis’ favorite phrase, “don’t you know,” could be mitigated by domesticity. When playing, they helped me relax. Perhaps they knew that most of the pieces that I was confronting involved some certain pattern of notes and fingering waiting just beyond the current measure or the turning of a page to assault me with dissonant sound as I stumbled over the keys.
These places I feared and found it difficult, especially during lessons, to master and control. They were like some of those logs in the nearby Willamette or the Columbia during the June freshet: deadheads just beneath the surface, waiting for the first intrusion of a pleasure boat hull or, in my case, of a cluster of fingers.
Miss Lewis, however, liked me despite my failings. She sensed that I found playing significant and after a few years, during one of the Spring recitals, she joined me to play a piano duet. I remember her sitting at the practice piano while I sat perched nervously at the concert grand as we were about to play. I remember the oval of her pale thin face and her coiffed white hair, her makeup and her eyes, waiting for me to begin to play. I remember her smiling and I remember that, together, we did well. And I remember the honor: not everyone played a duet with Miss Lewis, by any means. It was strange to be so affirmed, especially as she initially had not sought me out. My father, her dentist, had innocently asked whether or not she was taking on any students. I had never played nor had he. She hesitated at the request and then finally relented. So this moment of four hands was truly something to be emblazoned in remembrance.
There was something about this connection, over time and beyond lessons, that drew me and my family to Jessie L. Lewis. It drew me to the studio week after week. It provided me with enough skill and knowledge to eventually make the piano an instrument of choice so that the keys became mine. It drew me to write my college entrance essay about this slim, willowy, willful, strong person dealing with affliction. It drew me back, long after high school and any lessons. Finally, it accosted me when, far from Portland, my mother told me that Miss Lewis has passed away.
My mother attended the service. It was an Episcopal service, she said, and very private. Only a few people attended. “It was very simple.” Simplicity in my hearing included a sense of beauty and decorum. Simplicity was something that she would have liked.
We all knew that Miss Lewis had a familial connection with Victor Herbert. Her obituary in 1964 spoke of Jessie being Herbert’s godchild and stated that she studied with Herbert in the studio of the Hungarian pianist Rafael Joseffy. Miss Lewis spoke of living for a time in New York City with cousins. One time she informed me, “They never let me wipe the glasses when doing dishes. I would break them because of my strong grip.” From time to time, I listened to some snipets of early years. The cousins with whom she stayed were rich and privileged. And crass. Later, encountering Matthew Arnold, I gathered that in Miss Lewis’ view, they were cultural Philistines.
Departing New York after several years, young Miss Lewis found her vocation. Jessie Lewis became a concert pianist. After lessons with her master teacher, she toured in the West and the Midwest with Victor Herbert. She met prominent violinists Fritz Kreisler and Mischa Elman. It is my understanding that she toured with Elman. What she did not tell me and what I did not know was that Jessie Lewis, despite her New York connections, came from an Oregon pioneer family. Her father and mother both had business backgrounds as grocers. And, with the exception of the New York years with Herbert and her touring as a pianist, her life, before and after was in Portland.
Miss Lewis passed away at her home on Dixon Street. She was buried in the Lone Fir Pioneer Cemetery outside of Portland with a grave marked Jessie L. Lewis, and the dates 1888-1964. Simplicity.
Years earlier, I visited her once upstairs with my mother following the first of Miss Lewis’ health challenges. We were allowed up by her house keeper a few days after her heart attack. As we entered the room, I encountered my teacher as just a slight form under the covers. Still, she greeted us with her steady smile despite her weakness. Our visit was brief, but even as a young boy it was clear: She would not relent.
Miss Lewis recovered from her heart event, but, in 1959, she endured another health challenge: blindness. Jessie Lewis awoke one morning to perpetual darkness due to the vascular accident involving the capillaries supplying her eyes. Recovering from the initial shock, Lewis hired someone to be her eyes. She plunged into learning the Brail system. Behind dark glasses, she would sit again to my right with her slight hickory stick with which to touch and shape fingers or (mostly) to pin down errant musical scores. When I foundered over a note, she gently would amaze me with her announcement of the missed key to be corrected.
Two other impressions have survived the decades. One is the tragic loss of the virtuoso William Kapell. The other survives in the memory of Sonny—an African American neighbor and fellow student.
Kapell was an acclaimed virtuoso. He toured throughout the world. When Kapell played a concert in Portland, he would practice at Miss Lewis’ studio. She taught Kapell’s wife and “coached” her husband on these occasions. Kapell once asked Vladimir Horowitz to teach him. Horowitz refused, saying that he felt that there was nothing that he could teach William. Kapell died tragically coming home from Australia where he had conducted an intense concert tour (37 concerts in 14 days). The plane crashed in the mountains just south of San Francisco with passengers and crew all lost.
***
Music was everything. Music was life. Jessie Lewis had married music long ago; there was no turning back. And there was no desire to do so.
Now again I see her. I see her sitting at the practice piano while I sit perched nervously at the concert grand as we were about to play. I remember the oval of her pale thin face and her coiffed white hair, her makeup and her blue eyes, waiting for me to begin. I remember her smiling and I remember that, together, we did well.
Lewis was a gentle ambassador of beauty in the form of considered sound. She was the ambassador of centuries, the flowing of years in which people confronted keyboards with which to lift up sound to impinge and pin beauty upon cloistered air. This I understood mostly only later, but the seeds of “don’t you know” had been planted and would survive.