It is what we’ve done every summer to honor my father, rain or shine. He loved classical music and yet was cursed with what he thought were two girls who loved men in tight pants and arena rock. He was wrong. All ninety nine versions of the melancholic but gorgeous Mahler symphonies he owned and the countless hours on family road trips with only NPR on the radio, his music has become the main soundtrack of our lives. It is what I turn to when I am feeling what I now like to refer to as complicated.
How lucky I am that my cow town is a short drive from the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in Lenox, MA and Tanglewood. Times have changed and bands like Wilco come play here too but the focus remains classical with a few nights every summer devoted to film music. I am sure my father would allow a little John Williams and the triumphant theme to Superman.
The lawn is your best bet, unless you need to see Joshua Bell‘s forehead sweating (playing my nerd card there – people, he’s like a rock star to a certain slice of the world). The people watching is bar none one of the great experiences, almost as good as an airport.
Today it is West Side Story – I know, dicey because while brilliant it is not really fitting the Dad’s bill. No worries, last weekend we brought the cub to hear good old Gus (aka Mahler). Keeping the tradition alive in the next generation of lion cows.
Dad, hope you’re smiling and cursing us at the same time for being such dark horses. Your girls came through for you. There is a way to love men in tight pants with screaming guitars and alternatively be entranced by the violin.