Spring 2019

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading;

It vexes me to choose another guide:

Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;

Where the wild wind blows on the mountainside.

From an undated poem by Emily Bronte

When, as a young adult, I moved from west Texas with its arid plains and mesquite trees to an historic village in Massachusetts, I was quite unprepared for March and April. Though the blue northers” and volcanically hot summers of the Southwest were trying, the brief Spring was a season to be cherished. Balmy days and cool nights, golden jonquils with their haunting fragrance, the cooing of mourning doves all woke a feeling of joy and rebirth. Well, New England certainly lived up to the promise I’d glimpsed in early childhood literature and teen-age music study in Maine. So what was this? Spring? This eternal mud from snowmelt, the long wait for green leaves, the cold and rainy Easters? Thus began what I referred to as my Annual March Depression, often extending into April and May.

​This year the weather in our upstate New York village has been pretty brutal: record-breaking snow, rain, sleet, and ceaseless wind. The view out to the sloping fields kicked off Borodin’s Steppes of Central Asia in my brain.

​Yes, I know I’ve gone on record as loving winter and I still do. But this one was truly a trial. It made me wonder how the families that lived in this house from 1792 until the 1930s endured. Old letters found in the vast attic tell of the giddy delight of opening the shutters after the last blast of frigid air. I’d naively thought them to be merely decorative. Now I know the long winter days were lived in darkness, dimly lit by firelight and lamplight. How fortunate we are today that we can enjoy the beauty of an historic home with the simple flick of a switch to bring up magical heat and light, and can look out on the beauty of winter through the wavy glass of every window!

​Today, for the first time, the tender green of the lawn is spangled with stars of blue scilla, and daffodils are bravely exposing their hearts. Soon the crabapples will be heavy with pink blossom, and the ancient honey locusts, planted when this house was built, will attract swarms of bees to their fragrant flowers.

The picture above is the cover of a cd that a wonderful Metropolitan Opera soprano, Joyce Guyer, and I made. It features gorgeous romantic music for voice and harp. (More about the harp in my suspense novel, Merchant of Dreams.) The composers are Ravel, Debussy, Marcel Grandjany, Marcel Tournier, and a most amazing woman, Liza Lehmann. Born in London in 1862 to a family of artists and musicians, she was a successful composer, pianist, and singer. Her brilliant career was supported by the famous violinist Joseph Joachim and the peerless virtuoso pianist Clara Schumann, wife of Robert. (Clara pursued her concertizing across Europe while raising eight children!).

​In an era when women were routinely characterized as “the angel of the house,” Lehmann was composing and performing wildly impassioned music, the best known being In a Persian Garden, a song cycle on poems of Omar Khayyam. I transcribed her accompaniments from piano to harp, as well as the other songs on the cd, without losing a note of the originals, and Joyce and I performed them in several recitals while she was singing at Glimmerglass Opera. It was a marvelous experience for me to collaborate with such an extraordinary singer. The cd, titled From the Garden of My Heart, is available from Amazon and CD Baby. It contains program notes and lyrics (in French and English) for all songs. I am not exaggerating when I say we’ve seen several strong men in tears over “Ah, Moon of My Delight.” The cover picture was shot in our yard at daffodil time!

​Some years ago Walter and I had an extended stay in France. We found a beautiful chateau, pale pink, set in a lovely park, and booked in on the spot. There was only one other couple there. The owner, a delightful woman whose family had owned the place for centuries, told us much about the history of her home, dating from 1470. She was a young girl in the years of WW2, when the estate was taken over by the Nazis. She and her mother were forced to move out, and found lodging in the village. When it became apparent that Germany was losing the war, they were called in by the officer in charge. He told them he was leaving with his troops, but warned them not to return until the following day. That night the Nazis pulled out. Burning with curiosity to see how her home had survived, the girl waited until she felt it safe, then crept back to the chateau. The building had been used as a barracks, so the depredations were severe, including a huge portrait of Hitler nailed up over the priceless Dufour grisaille “Psyche” wallpaper. As a final step, she ventured into the enormous kitchen, and was horrified to find it wired with enough explosives to destroy the entire chateau. She ran through the dark to the village, and told the mayor what she’d found. He summoned local men and they succeeded in defusing the bombs, thus foiling the Nazi’s scorched earth policy. She told us this story while serving a unique, peasant-style cheese souffle.

As I sign off, I see that it is snowing again! Hopefully this is the last attempt of Winter to edge out Spring. I wish you warm breezes and fragrant flowers. Don’t forget to chat with me! I’d love to read your thoughts. Anita

PS--When ordering the cd, click here or search Google for “Amazon From the Garden of My Heart, Joyce Guyer and Anita Briggs.” Ignore all the “explicits.” When I called to inquire why this was added to the song titles, I was told it was required if the lyrics contained anything questionable. Questionable??? This is too funny! Trust me, you can play this with perfect safety for your four-year-old or teenager!