Walking along the Marina, the air crisp and cool, the Strait calm as a lake, and Mt. Diablo sparkling in the background, I saw a woman approaching on a bicycle. ”Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said in a melodious voice. “Gorgeous,” I smiled as I observed the loveliness of the setting. Felt like I was in a movie. “Oklahoma” came to mind. Any minute Gordon MacRae would trot by on a horse singing “There’s a bright, golden haze on the meadow ….
People have said that Benicia reminds them of Mayberry — the idealized small town in the Andy Griffith Show. It’s not a stretch to see the comparison — a symbol of decency, neighborliness, and nostalgia. And for Benicia I would add — arts and culture.
Walked up to St. Paul’s Saturday to check on tables in Parish Hall. Had volunteered to organize the yearly potluck for Benicia Insight Meditation. Leaving the Hall, saw a couple dressed like they were from the 1890’s — he in suspenders and a bowler and she wearing a long dress and straw bonnet. On their heels were Mary Ellen and Jerry Hayes.
“I think the concert is in the chapel,” said Mary Ellen. “What concert?” I said. “The Ragtime concert,” she replied.
Sounded interesting. Once inside I took a seat on a red velvet cushion in a cozy pew near the back of the church.
John Partridge, nationally acclaimed ragtime musician, composer, and conductor was giving a slide show on the history of ragtime. He currently serves as music director at St. Paul’s following an illustrious career with an opera, cantatas, and oratorios among his repertoire. He started composing at age 5 and later supported himself and his family as a computer programmer.
When he sat down at the piano, the place came alive. At first I thought it was a player piano. I immediately recognized Scott Joplin’s jaunty theme from “The Sting” and started dancing in place. It was such a pleasure sitting there gazing at those jeweled colored stained glass windows while listening to a master play the most exciting ragtime you’ve every heard. Perfect syncopation and stride piano. He even sang a song or two.
“Now let’s do a sing along,” he announced. Lyrics were projected on the screen. Got up to leave for an appointment, but once he started I was glued to the church floor. Mind you, I couldn’t read the lyrics from that distance, but for some reason knew them all — for every song.
We started with “Home on the Range.” Then “Daisy.” Next, “ I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” “ You Are My Sunshine,” “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “Five Foot Two,” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I belted all of them out like I knew how to sing.
How did I know all of the lyrics? Wasn’t alive during those years. The first music I heard were the Strauss waltzes Mom would play on the Magnavox, a few musicals like Oklahoma, and then Elvis.
During the break I spoke to John Partridge about it. “It’s funny, he said. “I can’t remember what I did yesterday but can remember all of the TV commercials from the 1950s and 60s.”
“Me too!” I said.
“LSMFT means fine tobacco.” “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.” “A little dab’ll do ya.” “See the USA in your Chevrolet.” Winston taste’s good like a cigarette should.” Good grief!
The next day stopped by Arts Benicia for their Dia de los Muertos” program — the Mexican holiday celebrating those who have passed on. Neither sad nor maudlin, Day of the Dead is a ceremony of love, remembrance, and joy. A colorful, tiered altar was set up in the front room of the old Commandant’s Residence. Mario Saucedo, Vallejo mixed media artist, educator, counselor, and community activist led a discussion on the history of the holiday along with a Ms. Perez (missed her first name) who grew up with the tradition in Jalisco, MX and gave us a primer on the makings of an alter which combines indigenous and Catholic traditions.
The serape covered structure was anchored by two Catrinas —life-sized skeletons decorated with painted designs and elegant headpieces. Marigolds representing the fragility and beauty of life surrounded the display where photos of the deceased, candles, sugar skulls, crosses, butterflies, images of the Virgen de Guadalupe, a bowl of pan dulce, and a glass of water were placed.
We followed them out to the balcony for the purification ceremony, so as not to set off the sprinkler system in that historic building. As we stood with our hands on our hearts remembering loved ones, we were enveloped in the sweet smelling smoke of herbs and fragrant sweet bark representing a bridge between the physical and spiritual realms.
Now from the sublime to the prosaic. My friend and I decided we’ll order take-out for Thanksgiving. She’s a vegetarian, and I am gluten free, dairy free, mostly fat free, and a real buzzkill. She suggested Dianna’s Bakery, which until recently operated on the corner of First St. across from the Capitol. There had been some menus on the windows and my friend assumed that Dianna was now doing catering. But by the next day all of the flyers were gone.“Why don’t you try her website?”I suggested. “Oh, okay. I didn’t know she had one.”
She got hold of Dianna’s Bakery and spent a good fifteen minutes on the phone working through the menu, ordering a portobello mushroom and all of the fixings for herself and a turkey dinner with the usual sides and extra gravy for your truly — a two Imodium meal. With the substitutes finalized, the order completed and paid for, the woman on the phone asked “Would you like to pick your order up at the Bakery? “I thought you’d closed down,” my friend said.
“Oh no. We’re here right in the heart of Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia!” “I thought you were in Benicia.”
“Nope. Philadelphia.”
“Well, I guess I won’t be picking it up,” my friend said. “I don’t drive.”
Now we’re back to square one. Desperately seeking Dianna!
Letters From Benicia 