Sunlight is peering from behind a drawn shade as a new day is brought forth after a night of slumber. I reach for the box of melody, circumstance and meteorology, the radio, to give me a warming motivation to begin my day. This rise and shine is met with the bars of Gilbert and Sullivan's Pinafore, a jolt to my lumbering self as I wipe the sandman's crystals from my drooping eyes. A pat of the foot and the course of my day is set before me.
After a moment, Pinafore's strains are left floating in the air and a harpsichord piece of Johann Sebastian Bach is playing on my eardrums as the recorded artist fleas his hands to and fro across the keyboard. Pictures of a colonial time and a minuet are always the first thing for me, to come to mind when the harpsichord is the instrument of choice.
Through the open window, measures of a different rhythm are joined to the sounds emitting from the electric box of sound. Wind chimes are mimicking the harpsichord in a much higher pitch and birds are chirping to the accompanied sounds made by man and nature alike.
For a moment the far away BBC gives us the news of the day from beyond The Cliffs of Dover, and the weather announcer warns of rain that may wane its way and restrict the rising sun and its radiation glow and cause it to disappear behind looming clouds.
Chopin's Heroic Polonaise in E flat is now making a determining sound of the radio and I open the house to the day as it is orchestrated, as the work of art from the old world master is played to herald his life and accomplishments. His own eulogy is recorded for the ages. Whether it was Vienna, Paris, or social set abroad, this never known technology to him, the radio, is now a boundless appreciative home for his labors and toils.
Chopin is now but a fleeting few minutes and recorded memory, we hear the twentieth century prima dona, Jeanette MacDonald, in the tradition of a not heard Jenny Lind, to such as us, is singing a selection from Naughty Marietta, while a kettle of coffee is brewing and permeating the house with Colombian gold.
As coffee is pored and toast and marmalade are set, Jeannette's lilting voice begins to fade to memory, a lovely sound of Mr. Joseph Haydn's collective soul is being exposed through a conductor's wave of his wand. Such a pleasant way to awaken to a new day and experience man at some of his finest hours, as lyrics, music and man's capabilities to surround us with beauty not just to the eye, but the listening ear and the ear drum of the soul.
June 13, 1999
Mark Edward Rogers
