Throughout the “old” New England
where I grew up, as in much of the rest of small-town America, there were two
symbolic pieces of architecture you would expect to see in every village, town
and hamlet: a white church with a tall steeple reaching heavenward, and an
outdoor bandstand at the center of the village green. I use the word symbolic here in the truest sense of the
term’s meaning, because at the heart of this column’s import lies a message
larger than its more obvious history lesson.
The people who settled this land we
call America carried with them a simple, but highly-personal and
firmly-implanted religious faith which anchored them in every pioneering step
they undertook, in good times and in bad. At significant expense and great individual
sacrifice they usually built a church as their first public structure, and over
my years of quiet but thoughtful roaming, I have learned to pause and consider
the too-easily-forgotten message intrinsic in every field-stone foundation and
hand-hung window frame of these sacred meeting places. I think of one such structure, now more than
200 years old, whose granite steps carry the unmistakable cupping wear of the
thousands and thousands of leather shoes worn by generations of parishioners
who have worshipped, been christened, married, and wished a final farewell
within its white-washed walls and beneath its meticulously-maintained steeple.
I love another in which religious services are held only occasionally now, but
whose carefully cleaned and trimmed kerosene lamps still light evening vespers
which bring together worshippers from far and wide to sing old hymns
accompanied on a hand-pump organ. (The mountain town folk promise it will never
be electrified.)
Almost as important as their faith
to early Americans was their appreciation of drama and cultural expression.
With access to the great symphony halls and opera houses of the day only a
distant dream for most, they capitalized on the talent in their midst, and
concerts in the park or on the village green became a key part of village life.
In time, most small towns erected a bandstand as artfully-crafted and dutifully-maintained
as their churches, usually open on all sides and situated with a 360 degree
audience in mind.
One day, while acting as tour guides
for one of our annual New England safaris, we happened – by chance – upon such
a gathering assembled on the green sloping lawns fronting Vermont’s capitol
dome in Montpelier. We were lucky to find a parking place for our van as
hundreds upon hundreds of local citizens arrived from all directions to vie for
a place to cast a blanket or lawn chair as band members took their places on a
prominent dale. I had cautioned our travel group that we could not stay long
without compromising our daily schedule; but that was before the collection of
home-grown brass players, fifers, drummers and an age-defiant string section
began to play. I was impressed first of all by the unexpected virtuosity of
such a random collection of performers, and without a single written score in
evidence other than that of the conductor. And then came the recognition of an
audience so obviously stirred by the music filling the air that they broke into
spontaneous song themselves from time to time, and rose to their feet in an
indescribable display of patriotism as the notes of the Star-Spangled Banner capped an hours-long program of surprising
diversity. As I wiped the tears from my eyes I noticed that everyone within
sight was doing the same thing. And no one, including our tour group was in any
hurry to go home.
In a recent article in Down East magazine, I read with sadness
how such “concerts in the park” are disappearing from even the most “traditional”
of communities as musicians age, funding dries up, and changes in the dynamics
of family life place new limitations on that element we call “time.” And in those historic
white-steepled country churches, choir seats go too often unfilled for all the
same reasons.
: Typical of New England’s country
churches is this one in which Al & Shirley Cooper were wed nearly 61 years ago. Al Cooper Photo
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