Two birthdays.
Today is the 238th birthday of Ludwig van Beethoven. I always remember that fact because December 16 was also the birthday of my mamma, 129 years after the composer. I once took a train from Amsterdam to Bonn just so I could visit the home where he had been born. I've also taken a train from Rome to visit mamma and papà's birthplace in hilltop Panni.
Beethoven wrote noble and sublime music; my mamma made noble and sublime braciole in tomato sauce in the kitchen downstairs. She never heard any Beethoven, except what came from my room at the same time she was simmering braciole, polpette, and salsicce in the Sunday sauce made from her own garden tomato preserves. I might have been listening to the Opus 132 quartet with its Heiliger Dankgesang movement. I'm playing it right now. In that quartet, for me his finest work, the composer was giving thanks for his just being alive after an illness. It always brings tears to my eyes and never cheap ones.
I too give thanks. Today I give it for the memory of mamma and for the existence of this music.
Beethoven wrote noble and sublime music; my mamma made noble and sublime braciole in tomato sauce in the kitchen downstairs. She never heard any Beethoven, except what came from my room at the same time she was simmering braciole, polpette, and salsicce in the Sunday sauce made from her own garden tomato preserves. I might have been listening to the Opus 132 quartet with its Heiliger Dankgesang movement. I'm playing it right now. In that quartet, for me his finest work, the composer was giving thanks for his just being alive after an illness. It always brings tears to my eyes and never cheap ones.
I too give thanks. Today I give it for the memory of mamma and for the existence of this music.