Just like Philadelphia
Freedom means a lot to me
In between the place I’ve been
And where I’m going

I can see America
Trying not to show her age
Even though the winds of change
Keep on blowing

And I would lay your body down and rock your tears away
But it’s much too late for now to be like yesterday
And the time is running out and we still have to say
Goodbye

Will this be goodbye? That’s not clear right now. The future is cloudy–but I do feel it in the air, the sense of time passing by, an age coming to an end, and, as the song says, it’s much too late for now to be like yesterday. 

Freedom has meant a lot to me. I don’t claim that it would suddenly be taken away from me should events conspire that the land of the free would start to turn its back on freedom (but who do I kid? That began long ago), but the will to revel in just where I could travel in the space of less than 48 hours would likely wither away. It’s been hard enough, these past few years, to drive through what increasingly looks like a Potemkin Village, and wondering whether it had always been an illusion. But the fact that there was always truth there, a truth that once stood above the falsehoods enough to believe in, to inspire–that makes its demise harder.

There should have been so much more I wanted to see.

As it is, here was I, again, on the road again, on an uncommonly warm February Saturday, activities along my drive strung together like gems this time, the centrepiece being hearing Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony in Philadelphia, the same work I’d once driven to Nashville to hear live–a trip I would not make now, nearly five years later, because Tennessee has turned toxic. I took the back roads again to my first stop–roads that in the colourful days of autumn seemed like a slice of Americana, but in the drained light of February lacked even the snow that would hide the browns and greys. It seemed like I noticed the abandoned buildings and the sad dollar stores more this time. But the Corning Museum of Glass, first discovered on my way back home eighteen months ago, brought light–the light of glowing, molten glass–into my heart. I had signed up for two of their “make your own glass” workshops–short experiences with glassworking that would result in creations I could take home. These book up quickly, and I had not known about them during my first visit. This time, I had left early enough to stop in for an hour and a half, to complete the workshops, and then continue on my way. The projects would need to cure overnight, and I’d stop by on the way home to pick them up. I’d built padding into my travel schedule, as I always do, and the result was that I arrived at the museum when it opened at 9–with over an hour and a half to pass. I spent it wandering again through the contemporary glass gallery, arriving at the door to their demonstration amphitheater just in time to catch a glassblowing demonstration. Although I had seen one of their smaller demos on my last trip, I had not seen this one. This was large-scale glassblowing, with glass pulled from huge furnaces on long rods. Molten glass at the end of a hollow rod is a fascinating thing–glowing orange red, clearly liquid, but kept in a ball at the end of the rod by constant movement, and then rolled and pinched for shaping. The item being made was a vessel with a long neck, spout attached to the body, and a handle, and it was mesmerizing to see how glass retained its hollowness when blown and still molten. This made my first workshop – where I assisted with the creation of a blown glass sculpture–even more fascinating. My role in this one was primarily to choose the colours and then to blow into the molten glass several times to make it hollow–the instructor did the rest. The second workshop, which was to make a swirled, lampworked pendant–involved much more work on my part–heating up the glass rods, folding the first one back and forth to create the base, then swirling in the other colours before pulling out the glass, twisting it, and creating a loop. In this case, the instructor mostly provided extra hands and an indication of when and how to do specific things. Both projects were then popped into kilns to cure and slowly cool down to be ready for pickup the next day. Before I left, I also picked up some earrings from the gift shop. I had kind of hoped to find more from the artist who had made the clear glass earrings from my last visit, but I no longer saw any in the shop. Instead, I purchased what looks like bunches of red glass grapes.

My next stop was Lancaster Archery, which was more or less on my way in to King of Prussia, PA, where I had booked my usual Holiday Inn Express. This took me along routes I had never travelled before on Rt. 15 south, over to Rt. 22 at Harrisburg, and only then, southeast to Lancaster. Used to driving mostly straight east to New York or Boston, I hadn’t realized how much further west the Philadelphia region actually was. These roads were not interstates, so there were many more slowdowns and direct access to this route, which wound its way through the hills and mountains of central Pennsylvania. Some of this route was slightly familiar–this was the way to the campground where the St. Clare embroidery symposium is held, and I recognized the town of Williamsport, home of the Little League. It was at Williamsport that I crossed the west branch of the Susquehanna River, beginning a dance that crossed over the river several times before meeting up with the river at Selinsgrove, just below the confluence of the two branches. I then followed alongside the increasingly-mighty Susquehanna all the way to Harrisburg, leaving it only when I turned eastward. And I was reminded again of the four-panel painting that once hung in my parents’ living room, entitled The Susquehanna:

I decided this time to Google the painting to see if I could find it, and was able to recognize the work from the figure or the fisherman in the foreground and the cow in the centre left. This is the work of Jasper F. Cropsey, known for his Hudson River School landscape paintings. He was particularly known for his paintings of autumn, and you can still buy high-quality reproductions of this work. Although the river was bare and grey in February, I could just imagine it in autumn.

Finally, arriving in Lancaster, I made my way to Lancaster Archery, arriving about 3:15 pm, 45 minutes before closing. The store was hugely busy. I couldn’t find the cedar arrow shafts I’d come for, and so asked one of the clerks–who told me they didn’t sell them in the store any more. I knew they were on the website–which he confirmed by looking them up. “But they’re at the warehouse, and it’s too late to go get them, ” he told me. I told him I’d come from Ontario and hadn’t wanted to order ahead as I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the store. Saddened, I resigned myself to just picking up some packages of fletching when the clerk returned. “Can you wait until 4:15? Someone’s willing to go pick them up for you.” I knew I still had an hour to drive to get to King of Prussia, but that was still doable–the concert was not until 8 pm. At 4:10, I had my cedar shafts and was off to the hotel.

What I hadn’t realized was the fastest way there was east–right through Amish country. Suddenly I understood why, since I’d gotten off the highway at Lancaster, there was such a strong scent of horse manure in the air in the middle of February, and I realized why “Lancaster, PA” was ringing a bell in my head–it’s pretty much Amish Central. (The city, incidentally, dates to 1681). And I understood now why there were people in Plain clothing in the archery store. For several miles on PA-340, through the towns of Bird-in-Hand and Intercourse (har har!) before turning south to pick up Rt. 30, the road was packed with Amish furniture stores, restaurants, quilt stores, and touristy places promising “the Amish experience.” There were also actual Amish people with buggies, and the berms were full of road apples. I saw one Plainly-dressed young man out jogging (did I mention the temperature was around 15C?) and at one point, a buggy parked outside an otherwise regular-looking ranch house. I wished I’d had time to stop for a snack and maybe to visit a quilt shop, but I was on the clock.

I had just enough time to check in, to eat the sandwich I’d packed, to get dressed, and to head out with a quick stop at the large mall I’d spotted nearby. I had decided that if I was in Philly, I should pick up a stuffed Gritty toy, and the Dick’s nearby had them. I also realized that the knee-high hose I’d packed didn’t match, so I popped into a Primark adjacent to the Dick’s–and ended up coming home with a new cheap and cheerful burgundy work blazer for $10 (on sale) US as well as a vest for $16. Then it was off to downtown Philly. The drive was less than 20 miles but the traffic was heavy, so it took over 40 minutes, mostly alongside the west bank of the Schuylkill River. But it was dark, so I got little sense of the landscape. I found the garage where I had booked a parking spot (in the bottom of the Wannamaker Building–boy, they were not kidding about tight angles in that garage!) and walked south of City Hall on Broad St. to the Kimmel Center and Verizon Hall.

The Kimmel Center is spectacular, and its centrepiece, Verizon Hall, is visually stunning. The interior is clad in gorgeous reddish-brown wood, its swoops consciously evoking the lines of a cello. Completed in 2001, the acoustics were considered problematic almost from the beginning, with the sound being bass-heavy and lacking the lushness in orchestral sound the Philadelphia Orchestra was famed for. Renovations and adjustments were made a few years later, and it’s now considered to be an oustanding hall. It certainly is just about the most gorgeous modern hall I’ve been in. I had a chance to have a pre-concert treat of a chocolate-caramel mousse tart (last one!) before heading in, and to wander about the spacious atrium of the Kimble Center.

The guest conductor for the concert was Tugan Sokhiev, who was musical director of the Bolshoi Ballet until he stepped down in early March, 2022 in the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. He had also held a position with an orchestra in Toulouse, France, which he also stepped down from. Since then, he’s been going around the world doing guest-conductor gigs. Although he said when he resigned from both posts that he was against conflict in all forms and did not want to “make a choice of one culture or musical tradition over another,” it’s fairly clear that he’s cast his lot with the West. Sokhiev, who was born in 1977 in North Ossetia in the USSR, is a small man–I would hazard he’s maybe 5’6″, maybe even less. And he apparently is known for working with brass players, which was evident in his choice for an opening piece, a chorale for two brass choirs of four players each originally created by 16th century Italian composer Giovanni Gabrielli for St. Mark’s Cathedral in Venice. This music reminded me that I really should chase down more of Gabrielli’s works, as I love them every time I hear them. The first half of the concert concluded with Britten’s Simple Symphony. Composed by Britten when he was just 20, this is a work I remember from high school–we played the third movement, Sentimental Sarabande–in orchestra. It’s a work for strings only, and it is a tremendous amount of fun–particularly the entire pizzicato movement–but that absolutely lush third movement is the centrepiece of the work. I hadn’t really heard it since high school (with the exception of its use in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel ) but it had that sense of familiarity to it that I think can only come when you’ve played a work.

After the short first half came the focus of the concert, and of my trip: Shostakovich’s symphony no. 4. The last time I heard it, I had a floor seat so I couldn’t see beyond the wall of strings. This time I was up in the first balcony/mezzanine, so I got to see the entire orchestra, including all the soloists and the percussion. Sokhiev took the opening movement a little slower than I’m used to, but it afforded me the chance to really hear how the movement fit together. And in those triple forte sections, the sound was massive–but crisp and clear. The fugato’s furious strings were amazing to watch–especially the basses, travelling up and down their fingerboards–and at the massive chord that involves virtually every instrument in the orchestra just after, Sokhiev held the orchestra for just a tiny moment before leaning back as if to say “now, blow me away”–and they did. But the delicate harp response to a fragmentary flute solo was not lost, nor was the first appearance of the celesta–because the 4th is as much about quiet as it is about overwhelming walls of sound. For the first time, I realized that the first movement features a very long cor anglais solo near the end, before ending quietly. In fact, all three movements end quietly, and the second’s famous percussion coda–which would be echoed in the ending of Shostakovich’s 15th symphony many years later–was beautifully done. The third movement’s highlight (other than its jaw-dropping ending) was the first toccata, in which different string sections play on different beats. Sokhiev took it blisteringly fast, somehow keeping the tune going without devolving into chaos. There were also parts that presaged to me the second movement of the 5th symphony; Shostakovich said that the 5th contained many “tombstones” from the 4th, and I’m familiar with some of those in the second movement and in the use of the celesta, but this was the first time I thought I’d heard some prequel to the 5th’s jaunty second movement. Other soloist highlights were the violinist in the first movement, the bassoonist throughout, the two timpani players (one of them female), and the trombonist in the final movement (another massive solo I’d never really paid attention to).

But it’s the shattering brass chorale followed by the quiet coda over the throbbing of the cellos and basses over the distant thunder of the bass drum and muted trumpet solos, harp, and then finally the celesta that makes this symphony, and despite two minor issues, it did not disappoint. The first problem was at the entrance of the celesta–which is the instrument that shapes that quiet coda–after the energy has drained from the orchestra and we have advanced into some kind of mysterious suspended state. At that point, two or three people down from me to the left, someone’s cell phone pinged. A couple of death stares, and it was silenced and we were treated to that wonderful morendo–the strings quietly playing an unchanging note as the muted trumpet sounds one last time, low harps respond, and the celesta weaves between them, until, at the end, a final, high note. At that point, the audience and orchestra remained frozen as the sound drained away and into silence, held by Sokhiev–at least until a few people decided it was time to clap. They quickly stopped, and Sokhiev held them for about fifteen more seconds, before putting down his baton to rapturous applause. (I am told by people who attended earlier performances that Sokhiev kept his baton up for at least 30 seconds, if not more–as you do with this piece. This is the way.)

Sunday morning: Cinnamon rolls, then on the road north, up to Binghamton via the Poconos, winding around mountain ridges. I was going to the Ross Park Zoo to see a cat–more specifically, a manul or Pallas’ Cat. I’d hope to see one on my trip to Chicago in December, but that zoo was closed during the day in order to run a holiday lights program. Ross Park Zoo is small, but has apparently been part of the park for close to 150 years, and, as I found out later, they’ve had a Pallas’ cat since 2020. Pallas’ cats, native to the steppes and rocky plateaus of central Asia, are about the size of a housecat but look much larger and floofier due to their thick, long fur. They have short, round ears placed more on the sides of their head, eyes with round pupils, really long canines, and a reputation for having some of the most expressive faces among all cats. I embroidered one a couple of years ago. They’re also hard to keep in zoos, as their immune systems are used to high-altitude living and therefore are more susceptible to infections that likely would not impact cats living at lower altitudes significantly. Toxoplasmosis, in particular, is an issue–domestic cats can carry it without symptoms, but it almost always kills manuls. They also have an incredibly short window where females are fertile. Coming into the park, I spotted the manul up at the top of a “rock” in its enclosure. It did a bit of an ekekek at me, and I returned the favour. But then–I noticed there was another one there–and then, another one! I hadn’t realized they had more than one! After going to see some of the other animals (including a sand cat, fennec foxes, Actic lynxes, red wolves, red pandas, snowy owls, and a cougar) I returned to watch the manuls. This time, all three of them were lined up high up on their rock watching. The downside was that, because of glass and mesh in their enclosure, I could not get many good photos. (Later, I’d find out that there were possibly as many as seven there. A litter of four kittens, all males, had been born to Atlas and Jodi the previous spring.) I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t get a t-shirt with a manul or a stuffie, but I did purchase a nice watercolour print.

Then back along I-86 (familiar roads) to the glass museum to pick up my projects, then the back way to Orchard Park and Wegman’s for Graeter’s ice cream, chocolate pinwheels, and Utz pretzels. I was tired by this point and worried–I’d scraped the right-hand back end of the car in a close encounter with a pole, and it had put a bit of a damper on the trip home. Inescapable was the thought that this might be the last one of these trips. I love my time on the road, but so many of the unicorns have been found, and the forest in which they dwell has become full of dark shadows. I feel in many ways like I’ve been seizing fiercely upon those final rays of light as the sun sets on my homeland–and maybe on the world of my youth.

Remember Philadelphia
When the world was young and warm
So in love and living for
Everything new

But I know, Philadelphia
The winter wind will slowly take
Your heart and soul until it makes
Nothing of you

And I would lay your body down and rock your tears away
But it’s much too late for now to be like yesterday
And the time is running out and we still have to say
Goodbye

Flash a peace sign, take a bow
Though we may not know it now
Things are never gonna be the same
Here on Seventh Avenue
I tip my old top hat to you
I hope you find somebody who
Will love you like I do

‘Cause I would lay your body down and rock your tears away
But it’s much too late for now to be like yesterday
And the time is running out and we still have to say
Goodbye