Looking out my Backdoor: I got culture

Last Thursday Kathy, Richard, Nancie and I drove into Guadalajara for a night of highbrow music.

El Teatro Santo Degollado, in the Centro Historico district where the Orquesta Filamonica performs, is a spectacular building of European architecture, a treat in itself.

Are you impressed? I am. I grew up minus music, other than what I heard on the radio broadcast from Havre.

Kathy, however, an avid cello player for many years, is in a different league and knows music intimately, classical music, that is.

I envy her knowledge. I love classical music in which I can lose myself while listening, transported to imaginary worlds. Of musical knowledge, I have none.

Thanks to long winters when I was housebound in Dodson, snowed in on the ranch south of town, thanks to radio from Saskatoon and Regina, every Saturday morning I tuned to opera. Knowledgeable? No. Enjoyable? Yes, very much.

The orchestra preformed works by three Russian composers. The first presentation, by Gliere, should have been last, in my estimation. I did not want it to end. It was alive, purely magical.

The second, a grouping by Tchaikosky, while romantic, with glimpses of love stories, was inconsistent, alternating wonderful with ho-hum. Remember, now, I, an ignorant of music, just telling it like I heard it. Technically, the performance was excellent. It lacked that indefinable spark that creates, what else, magic.

Shostakovich: Mostly I wanted to go home. I heard horses charging through narrow streets. I heard moans of pain and hunger, of war-torn fears. The music was savage. The music cried tears. The music exhausted me.

Later, after much urging by Kathy and hesitation by myself, I told her my impressions. I could have listened, transported, to Gliere all night. I wanted the magic. Interestingly, Kathy, in more sophisticated musical terms, agreed and added knowledge to my assessments.

Thus, I discovered my hidden musical talent — identifying the magic. I went on to discuss the magic of other music, unknown to Kathy, of Hank Sr., of Elvis, of Freddie Mercury. I felt redeemed. I felt good.

It’s true. I got friends in low places and perhaps I ain’t big on social graces. But I know magic when I hear it.

The following night at the Casa de Cultura in Etzatlan, a different cultural experience unfolded. It was the International Day of the Woman. Etzatlan held a pagaent to honor the Working Woman of the Year.

Samantha had nominated her mother, Bonnie, and I’d helped Sam prepare the nomination paper.

Bonnie, who manages the rancho, is a licensed practitioner of Chinese medicine. So I was happy to be in the audience for support.

A dozen women were in the running. The impressive program was well presented. The women nominated consisted of a professional, an woman who runs a dress shop, another who makes and sells crafts such as piñatas, a domestic worker and cooks and vendors of simple foods. Five women were honored for various categories and I wish I could have taken notes. Bonnie was selected as Elegancia Woman of the Year.

Chosen for The Working Woman of the Year was a quiet and humble woman from Santa Rosalia who made and sold tacos, tamalés and atolé from her home kitchen. Santa Rosalia, an ehido about 10 kilometers from here, is included in the greater Municipalia of Etzatlan.

The only thing that would have made the night better would have been subtitles. But as a bonus, I learned that the Casa de Cultura sponsors a movie night. Using discretion, of course, being as cultured as I am, I plan to show up regularly at the cinema.

Popcorn, please.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].