41st Annual Gathering of the "Middle Bass Woodshed Chorus" - Journal entries by Reid Joyce |
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Depart early from Butler. 3.5-hr drive to Port Clinton. This has been the hottest summer on record, and it looks like this may be the hottest, sweatiest weekend of the bunch. In Port Clinton we buy ferry tickets, then walk into town to an old-fashioned dime store, to buy a forgotten towel. Ferry ride from Port Clinton We pass another ferry boat, but this one's sitting up on a cliff. Must have been a hell of a wave that put that sucker up there. No, wait a minute...it's been turned into a house. Must have been a hell of a crane... We sing Coney Island Baby for the girl who tends bar on our ferry. She's been doing this for several years, but claims no one's ever sung just for her before. I can't believe it. We stop at Put-In-Bay (on South Bass Island). Most of the people get off the ferry and lunge for the little tour train, then sit there waiting for someone to tell them what they ought to want to take pictures of. We ride another 15 minutes and finally land at Middle Bass Island. Middle Bass Island / Lonz Winery The winery is just across the parking lot from the ferry landing; the winery is apparently as far as most day-trippers ever go on the island. You could crawl back to the ferry landing from the winery, if you had to... The Wine: not great, but (as a friend had previously advised) definitely cheaper than it is bad. One winery patron discovers barbershoping for the first time. He still likes "My Wild Irish Rose" 5,000 times later. There are several smiling, friendly listeners who won't sing, but elbow their way right into the middle of a quartet to hear better. It's incredibly hot and sticky, but nobody seems to mind. One barbershopper we know discovers the need for pacing, in the general area of alcohol. The timing is pretty good, though. It looks like there's time to sober up before tonight's show. We get a ride to the cook shack, which has been set up especially for us barbershoppers, and whip up our first greasy burgers. It's about 4 pm. They taste great. We get a ride to Beer's Fishing Cottages (no, they're owned by old Ms. Beer), where we're staying: in the front yard, there's a Big Concrete Bass (fish, not singer). Like, about the size of a VW. Getting organized at home. Surprise: there are no sheets for the beds, but they have nice plastic mattress covers. The burgers came just a bit too late for the barbershopper with the pacing problem; he calls Europe on the porcelain telephone. That seems to help. We get a wild van ride back to the winery, interrupted by a search for the driver's glasses. We don't find them, but decide that he probably drives pretty scary even with his glasses. We take the pedestrian ferry to Put-In-Bay, back on South Bass Island. Charlie and Bill were standing in line with us a minute ago, but they miss the ferry. The rest of us make the 15-minute trip. A couple of newlyweds pass out right there on the ferry, but are revived in time to disembark. After we land, I get a raspberry slush. God, I never would have guessed it would be electric blue. I don't think I've ever eaten anything that color before. The three of us sit in the park at a picnic table. Another trio joins us for a couple of songs; then Tom Neel, the director of the famous "Middle Bass Woodshed Chorus," comes over and teaches us a couple of tags. We stroll through the park. There's a neat water tower. It leaks. We're going to sing a concert in the park out at the edge of town, where there's a giant monument. We walk out to the monument, which commemorates the Battle of Lake Erie 175 years ago. It looks like a HUGE ionic column, with an observation platform near the top. We spend about ten minutes counting blocks, trying to figure out how tall the monument is to the platform. Finally, we realize that there's a whole box of pamphlets over there, containing everything you'd ever want to know about the park and the monument. 317 feet. We lie on the breakwall and watch the sun begin to set. We discover that those things that look like houseflies are really predatory animals with feeding apparatus that can reach right through your socks. The concert happens. We stand with our backs to the bay, the audience sits with their backs to the monument. It gets dark. We keep singing. They love it. If they ever hold a contest in the dark, I think Stage Presence shouldn't count for as many points. We grab the 10 o'clock ferry back to Middle Bass. It's too noisy to sing on the ferry, despite pleas from a couple of Sweet Young Things. Some people sing, anyway, but we turn the girls down. John thinks we're crazy. Back on our home island, the activity at the winery is winding down. We get a pickup-truck ride to the cook shack. We fix more greasy burgers till midnight, and do some singing with new arrivals. After a short walk, someone picks us up and gives us a ride home to the cabin. Surrealistic scene: a pitch-black dirt road, a small Honda with one front wheel that steers and one that doesn't, the same two Sweet Young Things whom we turned down earlier on the ferry, singers on the roof and bumpers, and Charlie with a dozen eggs and a big glass jar. The girls still want us to sing for them, but only if we promise not to sing about blue eyes. They hate songs about blue eyes. After a short, slow, jerky ride back to our cabin, we give a brief midnight thank-you serenade to the driver, who is pretty sure her name is Ann, by the Big Concrete Bass. Jerry's right: that "Goodbye, my love..." tag absolutely melts women, at least if they've been drinking. Lord knows this one has. We say goodbye, and hope they make it back home safely. The car's steering is too bad to allow it to be driven faster than a slow walk, so we figure at least they probably won't get hurt if it runs off the road or they pass out before they get home. Home at the cabin. There's no wind, and it's like spending the night in an autoclave. Night sounds: the velcro-like sound of a fitful sleeper's sweaty body rolling over on a plastic mattress cover. It dawns clear and hot, but the shower works. We hike to the cook shack, where we enjoy ham & eggs, sing a few tags with the other early risers, and swat some flies. We get back out to the road just in time to grab a ride with an older couple on their golf cart: a joyous trek to watch the mail plane arrive. They tell us they like to take this little trip when things get dull (which means several mornings a week). They weren't expecting anything; they just like to watch the plane. The plane, a big old DeHavilland Otter, rumbles up the gravel strip. Out jumps a tiny female pilot, who throws boxes and ladders around like Hulk Hogan. The winery is closed till noon, but they've hosed it down since last night so it's safe to go up on the porch to sit and read the paper. I read a book for a while on a volleyball court on the hill out back, then we go to a garage sale, where one of the happy campers scares Jerry with a pad of dollar bills. Ask Jerry. He tells the story better than I do. We were going to take the ferry over to South Bass, but they opened the winery... Wine. There's lots of singing. Our quartet, called "Prestige," gets on the list to perform at the afternoon quartet show at the winery. There's lots more singing. The Chorus starts to assemble. We've been told that the Chorus usually has an intense 4-5 minute rehearsal before the show, but this year we have to cut back. We settle for hearing the names of the songs we're going to sing. We do the show. It's a pleasant audience, but slightly noisy. Some of the people can't see too well or walk very straight. The audience is mildly relieved at the completion of our portion of the show. A Rock band follows us. It's pretty good. It perks 'em right up. Bill boogies. Boy, does he love to dance. I hope I'm that agile in 50 years, when I'm his age... My hearing mechanism begins to fail due to the rock band. I excuse myself to go do a little more reading on the hilltop out back. Jerry and I begin to stroll back toward the cook shack. We stop at the general store. IT'S AIR CONDITIONED! We buy lots of Gatorade. On the way back, we slug down a Gatorade in the back of another pickup truck. We have Gatorade and spaghetti at the cook shack. Great spaghetti! Served graciously by Charlie. Thanks, Charlie. We hitch a ride back to the cabin, in another truck. I take a shower, which begins to restore humanoid appearance. I read some more. Quiet time. We put on our quartet shirts, the ones that say "PRESTIGE" right where you'd hang your medals. We head for the concert. We start to hike to the quaint old Town Hall, site of the main reason for this weekend: a massive concert for the wonderful people of Middle Bass Island -- our delightful hosts. Before we've taken a dozen steps, a man spots us from his living room, runs out of his house, and says that if we walk, we'll get all sweaty before the show. He jumps in his van and gives us a ride, then goes back home. We've never seen the guy before. It's hard to imagine nicer people! We get on the program for the show. Good positioning: before the heavyweights, and after a couple of quartets who aren't quite as good as we are. There are about 18 quartets on the program. We perform. Charlie does great! We all do great! They love us! This has to be the most astute, intelligent, and perceptive audience in the universe! "Final Touch," the quartet that's taken us under their wing (or at least into their car), performs. Killer! They sound fantastic, and they know it. When they come offstage, they're so happy they almost explode. They look like they just won the gold. Some of their tenor's brain cells have obviously been compromised: the rest of the evening, all he's able to say is, "Yeah, BOY howdy!" We go down to the winery with Final Touch for a brief session (at the winery's request). We assess the audience at the winery and conclude that the True Believers were the ones back at the Town Hall. We return to the Town Hall for the finale with the chorus. The sound is almost more than the old structure can stand. Breathtaking. It's incredibly hot in the Town Hall, but not a soul has left, even after baking for almost three hours. I discover that even if people are sweating a lot, you can still tell when they start to cry. We finish with "I Believe," then "Keep America Singing." The sound is like a fundamental force of nature. Some of the islanders cry. Me, too, a little. Barbershoppers are allowed to do that, sometimes. The afterglows begin. We're whisked away in the Final-Touch-mobile to the exclusive Burgundy Bay Club for beer, peanuts, and more singing with our island hosts. We grope our way on foot down a dark dirt road to someone's back yard, where we sing some more for another appreciative audience. Jerry announces to them that we're probably going to have to change our quartet's name to All-Temperature Cheer, if we keep traveling with the next quartet ... ladies and gentlemen, please welcome -- Final Touch! That boy's weird, but he's got some great ideas. We grope our way back to the Club, then ride to the house where Final Touch has been staying. There's a front yard full of delightful old folks in lawn chairs, being serenaded by four or five quartets, loving it and trying to make us eat some more great food - they apply tremendous pressure, and Charlie yields. It's two o'clock in the morning. An old lady asks who's the bass in our quartet. I hold up my hand. She comes over and gives me a hug. She says, "I just love basses...my father was one." She means it. The Final Touch tenor suffers a brief episode of lucidity and teaches us a neat tag. We get it right, just in time: he drifts off, saying, "Yeah, BOY howdy!" We walk home. We're pretty close to home, so we say thank-yous and goodbyes, and walk back up the dark road. It's very quiet, except for the gentle lapping of the water on the rocks and that stuff still going on in our heads. Back in the cabin, we spend a few minutes trying to write down that tag we learned a few minutes ago, so it'll be more than a foggy memory in the morning. Charlie takes one last dip in the lake; I insist on coming along as lifeguard. We turn in. It cools off and gets breezy. Good sleeping. We wake up refreshed. We pack, bum a ride to the cook shack, and fix breakfast. We bum another ride to the ferry landing, where we kick back to watch a couple of boatloads of folks depart before us. Our boat finally arrives. The trip back is directly into the wind, so there's a lot of spray on the bow. We start out on the top deck. I get thirsty for a cup of coffee, but notice that everyone who goes below for something to drink (via the bow) comes back completely soaked with spray. I decide coffee can wait. But the idea of getting soaked begins to appeal to Charlie, who finally decides to just go down there and stand at the bow till he's satisfyingly soaked. At that same instant, the captain throttles back to prepare for our entrance into the harbor at Port Clinton, and we stop crashing into the waves. Charlie's plan is foiled. We arrive safely at Port Clinton, grab a bite at the Golden Arches, and have an uneventful trip home. Hey, Charlie, how soon can we send in a reservation for next year? |