Beauty, In Word and In Image

To me, pianos represent beauty. If I stumble on a grand piano with no one at the keys, as I did a month ago, I stop and stare.

The photograph I captured reminded me of an assignment I once had for a college journalism class. I was instructed to find something beautiful and describe it in writing. So I attended a recital of music composed by Karel Husa, the Pulitzer Prize winner who was in attendance.

Here is my essay:

The composer's hands trembled as he explained his four-minute masterpiece. The notes had fallen onto staff paper in Ithaca during the summer of 1955, a month after his mother had died. He took his seat among the scattered audience members. They were silent, awaiting the musical elegy.

The grand piano sat alone, center stage. Its cover stood open in preparation.

The musician -- a tall, thin woman wearing a floor-length black skirt and a vivid green blouse -- appeared from behind the folds of the curtain. She eyed the crowd contentedly for a moment, her plain facial features framed by short, straight brown hair. She walked confidently toward the instrument, touching it gingerly as she bowed and took a seat on the bench. She gently closed her eyes, and then the music came -- a single note followed by another. A solitary melody of grief.

In subtle harmony, her second hand joined in. Her fingers must have been there -- gliding along the ivory keys -- but they were hidden from view behind the piano's black body. As her head and shoulders moved in time with the phrases, she pulled out the composer's sorrow and pushed it toward the captivated audience.

Striking the keys harder, she brought heaviness to the requiem. She suddenly gasped at the sweetness of surprising staccatos and trills. And her eyes widened at the foreboding boom of several low chords before the alternating sounds stopped dead.

The music returned, quietly again, and her gaze drifted up into the bright concert lights. Her single-strand pearl necklace sparkled as she leaned back, fully extending her arms to guide an echoing pair of notes slowly down the keyboard. Her distance from the music widened and the final toll faded.

They Did It Again

Shane Victorino sounded like a winner from the first time I saw his name back in the summer of 2005 while editing a Triple-A baseball story for the AP. From what I read each night, he seemed to be the star for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. He was named International League MVP at season's end.

How incredible is it that, four seasons later, Philadelphia Phillies center fielder Shane Victorino made the last out in the World Series, giving the Yankees their 27th title and preventing the Phillies from repeating as champions?

Down 7-3 in the top of the ninth in Game 6, the Phillies were about to lose their status as the defending champs after playing 177 games. Victorino, their No. 2 batter and Golden Glove fielder, stepped up to the plate with two outs against superstar closer Mariano Rivera. Ever since Victorino became a starter midway through the 2006 season, fans have watched him hustle in the outfield and on the base paths. Often flashing a smile in the dugout, Victorino clearly loves playing the game.

But after capturing three straight National League division titles and two straight pennants, the Phillies were about to do what most expect them to do - lose. Two strikes were on Victorino. In anticipation, the broadcasters told us the Yankees were one strike away from winning it all (again).

Not quite. The Phillies weren't going down yet. Victorino fouled off the next pitch. And the next. He took a ball. The count went to 3-2. Only after 10 pitches did Victorino ground out. "We Are The Champions" began blaring from the speakers of the new Yankee Stadium.

Yes, the ending was the same. The Phillies lost. But this wasn't 1950, when they were swept by the Yankees. It wasn't 1993, when they lost on Joe Carter's home run. Unfortunately, it wasn't 2008 either. Cole Hamels wasn't commanding. Brad Lidge wasn't perfect. Harry Kalas wasn't calling the games.

I remember reading a preseason baseball preview in the newspaper, here in Louisville where the game doesn't get much attention. The capsule about the Phillies said they had a strong chance of repeating. I thought then that, although it might look good for them on paper, there was no way it would happen.

I would glance at the scores and standings each day, and there the Phillies were atop their division. When I visited my family over the summer, it was clear the reigning World Series champs were popular. A man wearing a Ryan Howard jersey waited near me in the baggage terminal. I saw a red pickup truck with a giant "P" on the tailgate at a gas station. We Phillies fans had been transformed from hesitant dreamers to enthusiastic believers.

The playoffs finally arrived. I fully realized these were not the Phillies of old when Howard smacked that two-out, ninth-inning RBI double into the Denver night. The Rockies had just taken a 4-2 lead in the eighth with a deflating three-run rally. Howard scored the winning run on Jayson Werth's RBI single. Lidge closed the game, and the Phils were suddenly off to the NLCS. The Phillies I knew growing up never would have been able to deliver in such a clutch situation. (Jimmy Rollins mustered similar magic against the Dodgers when his two-run double with two outs in the ninth gave the Phillies a 5-4 win and a 3-1 series lead.)

That's why, even though they made it back to the World Series and lost in six games, everything is different now for the Phillies. Like Victorino's last at-bat, they give their best until the end.

Top Chef vs. Sports Fan

It was an innocent statement that, days later, morphed into a startling revelation. “I’m not really a food person,” I informed my relatively new male boss and three female co-workers over lunch at a classy café featuring a menu of bourbon peach chicken, pork dijonnaise and bison quesadilla. I had been attempting to describe the wonderful meal I’d had the night before at a New Orleans-style restaurant. It was seafood – grouper and shrimp, to be exact. My vocabulary did not allow me to offer further specifics.

“You mean you’re not a foodie?” my boss asked in clarification, since everyone seemed puzzled that any living human could not be a “food person.” Yes, I do all our grocery shopping and try to cook a healthy dinner almost every night of the week. But, not having any dietary restrictions, I find no interest in reading nutrition labels or ingredient lists. Or watching the Food Network. Or reading the weekly food features in the newspaper. I am not a foodie.

A few days later, my husband and I were watching the Kentucky-Auburn football game on a friend’s 65-inch TV. A regular-size TV showing the South Carolina-Alabama game was muted beside it. We were enjoying some chili and wings when a new guest arrived, wearing a Buffalo Bills coat. “You’re a Bills fan?” I asked incredulously. Ever since I edited Bills stories for the AP while living in Albany, rooting for a team that lost four straight Super Bowls in the early 1990s has seemed fairly hopeless to me. “When I was starting to follow football, it was better than being a Bengals fan,” he explained later. The Tennessee Titans weren’t around yet, and the Indianapolis Colts didn’t have Peyton Manning yet. I decided not to tease him about his Bills coat again.

Even though my college football loyalties lie with Louisville and Penn State, I enjoyed our evening of SEC entertainment. Kentucky won at Auburn for the first time since 1966. Alabama prevailed to remain undefeated. Once again, I was proud of myself for being a woman who knows about sports.

But later I realized, sadly for the first time, that I am a woman who can talk more intelligently about the baseball postseason than about how to properly marinate steak. I watch ESPN. I read the sports section in the newspaper every day. Among women, I’m beginning to feel like a jock.

That’s starting to bother me. I suspect it won’t bother my husband as long as I keep putting meat-and-potato dinners on the table.

Victor Hugo's Epilogue

While it's difficult to see the ending of "Les Miserables" as uplifting, the novel is not Victor Hugo’s last word on redemption. I’m no expert on his religious views, but his writing clearly displays a reverence toward God.

I think it no coincidence that the man who causes Jean Valjean to turn from life as a convict is a humble Catholic priest. He is the only one who will give Valjean food or shelter after his release from prison, and Valjean responds by stealing the priest’s silver in the night. When the police bring Valjean to the priest for justice, he tells them to let Valjean go because the silver was a gift. As proof, he offers his silver candlesticks to Valjean, too. Those candlesticks serve as a permanent reminder of the new life Valjean must lead in return.


Valjean’s death at the end of the novel seems to show that Hugo thought true redemption came through God alone and, most often, in the life to come. Consider the novel's closing words: "Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, awaiting the soul."

And before his death in 1885, Hugo wrote the following about his anticipation for life in heaven.

“I feel within me that future life. For half a century I have been translating my thoughts into prose and verse: history, drama, philosophy, romance, tradition, satire, ode and song; all of these I have tried. But I feel I haven’t given utterance to the thousandth part of what lies within me. When I go to the grave I can say, as others have said, 'My day’s work is done.' But I cannot say, 'My life is done.' My work will recommence the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare. It closes upon the twilight, but opens upon the dawn.”

If that hope trumps the despair of this life, then take heart, readers, for Valjean's redemption is secure after all.

The Dreams That Cannot Be

“But there are dreams that cannot be/And there are storms we cannot weather … Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.”
– Fantine in Broadway’s “Les Miserables”

The librarian slid the 2-inch-thick volume toward me, her eyebrows slightly raised in curiosity. Little did she know I was checking out Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables” because of Susan Boyle.

Like millions of others, I was captivated by Boyle’s rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” from the Broadway adaptation of Hugo’s book. After watching the YouTube clip of her inspiring “Britain’s Got Talent” performance, I started listening once more to the “Les Mis” soundtrack I’ve had for years. Finally, I decided I wanted the full story – straight from the 500-page book. With each turn of the page, the songs from the musical played in my mind and filled each character with life.

What was Jean Valjean’s story in early 18th century France? The poor laborer began a lifetime of suffering the moment he tried to steal a loaf of bread for his sister’s starving children. Even after his release from prison, he could never escape the consequences of what he had been – a convict. Valjean valiantly pursues redemption while those who know his true identity pursue him. He builds a new life and becomes mayor of a town, only to turn himself in to the authorities to spare the life of a man they believe is Valjean. He escapes that capture so that he can rescue the orphan Cosette from squalor, then builds a new life raising her and giving to the poor. When the man Cosette loves almost dies in battle, Valjean carries him on his back through the sewers to safety. Cosette and Marius are able to marry and begin a comfortable life together, all because of Valjean’s sacrifices. But by then, he has little time left. Valjean dies having fulfilled Fantine's dream for her daughter but having never fully experienced redemption himself.

And what was Susan Boyle’s story in early 21st century England? The awkward woman lived a quiet life until she sang “I Dreamed a Dream” and was thrust into the constant spotlight of the entertainment media. Her life had been full of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams, and one performance gave her hope. Accolades flowed in from around the world, but so did critiques of her physical appearance. She wanted to win the talent competition to redeem herself, but the voices of scrutiny won out instead. When she finished second, her reward was a public mental breakdown.

Has much changed between the time Hugo wrote about and now? The world can often be a cruel place. I suppose that’s why we’ll always return to these bittersweet stories – in books, at the theater, on YouTube – of those who never quite realized their dreams.

He's No Marley

I wish I could write a book that tops the bestseller lists and inspires a major motion picture, but life has not dealt me the material that it dealt John Grogan when he bought an adorable yellow Lab puppy who turned into a rambunctious, troublemaking dog. “Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog” is a story already told, and my story of life and love with the world’s best dog would be a snoozer in comparison.

One of Grogan’s chapters is titled “The Things He Ate.” He tells of how Marley chowed on the mangoes that fell in their backyard in South Florida. He also swallowed many small household items, including sponges, socks and used tissues. He also destroyed major household items, like the stereo speakers, feather pillows and one leg of a wooden footstool. Most famously, he gulped down an 18-karat gold necklace Grogan gave his wife for her birthday. Days later, the necklace was recovered in a pile of Marley’s poop – fully intact.

As for my laidback 90-pound chocolate Lab, he only eats dog food and occasional treats. So I give you instead “The Places He Laid.”

Cam likes to be close to me, even in the bathroom. He frequently plops down on the bathroom rug outside our shower while I’m inside. It takes more than a few nudges of the stall door before he rises to curl up in our walk-in closet. During warmer months, he loves to sprawl out on the cool tile of the bathroom. He also sticks his snout in an air duct opening directly under our bathroom sink and remains prone there, causing me to step over him as I brush my teeth or apply my makeup.

Cam likes to lie in the morning sun and in the cool night air on our deck (conveniently, in the middle of the night). He lies between the couch and the coffee table while we watch TV, becoming a footrest of sorts. He lies on the doormat so he can keep watch on the neighborhood threats through our front door. His “bed” is a loveseat we keep covered with an old sheet to shield against shedding and slobber – our bed is one place he does not lie.

These days, I’m most likely to find him lying on the kitchen floor next to the air conditioning vent, just waiting for the cool air to begin blowing on him. He’s almost glued to this corner of the kitchen, so that, when I come home from work, I hear his long, thick tail banging on the linoleum. He’s happy I’m home, all right, but there’s no way he’s jumping up to greet me. He’s too comfortable. Slap, slap … slap! The drumming continues until I kneel down to rub his belly. Then our resident percussionist rolls over, fully satisfied.

The Finish Line

As the horses in the 135th Kentucky Derby power toward the finish line, I will be thinking of two inspirations who finished their respective races this week. Barbaro, the undefeated Kentucky Derby winner who survived a catastrophic leg break for many months, and Robley Rex, a World War I-era soldier who dedicated his long life to serving fellow veterans.

A majestic bronze statue of Barbaro now stands outside Gate 1 of Churchill Downs. The unveiling of the statue the weekend before the Kentucky Derby signified the culmination of Barbaro’s story. His owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, and trainer, Michael Matz, were there to pay final tribute to their colt. Dean Richardson, the University of Pennsylvania veterinarian who exhausted all measures to save Barbaro’s life, joined them. The sculptor the Jacksons selected to cast the horse in all his glory, Alexa King, also was on hand. So was a crowd of fans.

A race horse’s life is a labor of love for his connections. The Jacksons’ love for Barbaro illustrated that for the whole world to see, earning him the distinction of being the only horse buried on Churchill Downs grounds. His carefully crafted likeness will be there forever, captured in his moment of triumph – the stride when his four legs rose above the track as jockey Edgar Prado rode him toward the wire. A quote from the Oscar-winning movie “Chariots of Fire” is etched into the base of the monument: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.”

I suspect far less people know about the life of Robley Rex, who died just shy of his 108th birthday. Robley, who smiled his way through the final years of his life, died in the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Louisville where he logged 14,000 volunteer hours over two decades. Before that, he assisted scores of veterans at his local VFW post.

Robley’s wife had died in 1992, and they had no children. He served in the Army for a few years immediately after World War I had ended, then returned to civilian life. Yet he reached out and touched so many people that our elected officials memorialized him on the floor of Congress. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell lamented the loss of Kentucky’s oldest known veteran – “one of our last links to a bygone era.” Robley made an impression on anyone he met, myself and other journalists included.

A beloved horse and a beloved man finally crossed the finish line, having run very well indeed.