BY JOELLEN COLLINS
A year ago I seldom used the state name of Oklahoma. Those of you who have been my readers thus far know about the discovery of my birth family at this late stage of my life, so I will not dwell on the circumstances. However, two events from the past couple of weeks have reminded me of the gifts I have received both as a young person and even now.
On April 15th I returned from a few days spent with my “found” brother and his family in Oklahoma City, a beautiful metropolis in a part of our country I had never explored. But one event especially delighted my sense of blessing at this new source of joy and warmth. On Saturday, the 13th, my brother and I attended a celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Canterbury Voices and three brilliant soloists performing “Carmina Burana” with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic. I was initially thrilled at the number of choristers, including a hefty section of baritones and basses.
The performance was held in the architecturally exciting Civic Center Music Hall and presented by the Chickasaw Nation, a list that may give one a sense of the Plains, the Native American role in that area, and the oil money that funds such edifices as those arising from a spacious, horizontal downtown
My conclusions, through tears prompted by the sheer depth and richness of voices and instruments in combination, was how grateful I was to be so far away from the fabled coastal bastions of performance, literally in the middle of the country, and have this experience.
Then last week I again felt the presence of musical magic in Oklahoma right here in the Wood River Valley, far away from Broadway or The Met, in a tribute at the Hailey library (again, an anniversary celebration, in this case of 100 years since it first opened its doors).
R.L. Rowsey, our energetic, talented and generous conductor, teacher, mentor and patron saint of performing arts, held a one-hour session celebrating the music of the ’40s, one of the decades when the library served its small town. One work R.L. presented was “Oklahoma,” first produced in 1943, in the midst of war, a harbinger of the rich store of musical theater to follow. The audience in the library even got to sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” a song I have always cherished. I actually try to remember those lyrics when I awaken, even when troubled. So, again, tears filled my eyes, not from sadness, but from being moved by the simple experience of sharing in such music.
Here, as on so many occasions in our relatively small town, I could be given this happy time. I turned to my friends and said, “Boy, are we lucky to live here,” a phrase I repeat often at the prevalence of music, theatre, dance and art available to us.
It’s OK to be corny enough to think about “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” it may really be.
