The Story of Marge

When Icicles Hang, Fancies, The Cambridge Singers, John Rutter conducting

During the summer of 1981, the South Dakota Honors Choir performed in Brookings, SD. Mrs. B., my junior high and high school choir director at the time, had told me about this group. It was different than the All-State Chorus. All-State Chorus was massive; made up of at least one quartet (soprano, alto, tenor and bass) from each high school in the state.

The South Dakota Honors Choir is made up of 150 high school students who audition to be in the group. All of them are between either their sophomore and junior years or their junior and senior years. And they meet for a week in late July at a college campus to rehearse with a nationally or regionally renowned conductor. Naturally, the event culminates with a concert at the end of the week.

All of the music at the 1981 concert was wonderful. But I vividly recall three pieces. One was an all-male arrangement of “Down in the Valley” by George Mead. The other two were from a collection of songs by John Rutter called “When Icicles Hang”. The first was called “Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind,” a Shakespeare text from As You Like It. And the second was called “Good Ale” and is a loud raucous drinking song. "When Icicles Hang" is a collection of 5 songs with secular texts. Mr. Rutter, however, is more well-known for his sacred works.

John Rutter is a magnificent choral composer. He’s English, and keeps his residence near Cambridge, England. He has his own singing group called The Cambridge Singers. His Gloria is very popular and dozens of other shorter sacred works are staples in church choir repertoire all over the world. Mr. Rutter's talents extend into composition and arranging for orchestra and wind ensemble. He is in much demand internationally as a guest conductor.

Marge B. was a dear friend of our family and a neighbor when we lived on the farm. The first time we saw her and her family was when they Christmas caroled us one snowy evening in December of 1976. They were not unusual neighbors but I always found it odd that they would find their way to rural South Dakota from upstate New York (her) and Boston (him). They certainly had their own way of doing things, but instead of viewing them as peculiar, we were somehow compelled to see them as innovative and refreshing.

For many years we would be invited to their home for New Year’s Eve. No party; just a simple dinner complete with Boston baked beans followed by a game or just conversation. At midnight, Marge would hustle to the door and open it wide, “to let the old year out and the new one in.” Then she would have an argument with her cats. Barney, who was cross-eyed, Tom Tom, a sturdy pale yellow tomcat, and Knobby, who had had a tail accident some time in her life, all would want to go outside. And they were quite vocal about it. But she would match them “no” for “meow” until, finally, after one last passionate plea for outdoor-ness, they would turn on their heels and walk away. Marge would look at us with an expression mixed with humor and sadness and declare, “They’re swearing at me. I know they’re swearing at me.”

Marge had a lovely soprano voice and sang in the choir at the Presbyterian Church in Brookings. They have an outstanding pipe organ there and during my senior year in college, I was their organist and choir accompanist. Now and then they would sing a John Rutter anthem and Marge would be delighted. She adored his music. That’s why Marge was particularly troubled to one day find out that John Rutter is agnostic. She concluded, however, that it must not be true; the music was just too beautiful to be written by someone who questioned God’s existence. A 2003 feature on CBS’s “60 Minutes”, however, confirmed during the interview that he was “not particularly a religious man.”

Should an agnostic be allowed to write music for the church? I don’t know. Should a member of the Flat Earth Society be allowed to write stories for the Boston Globe?

Marge had a garden behind their house. She loved to gather its produce and then share it with her friends. In light of that, maybe the poetry of accepting the fruits of the labors of one in whom talent has been sown in order to be shared where nourishment is desired and required would not have been lost on her. I don’t harbor a sharp concern that my apple for lunch might have been grown by someone who is Hindu. You can only pick an apple with so much religious integrity.

This past spring, Marge met her Lord and Savior while being held by her daughter in affirmation that she was loved here on earth as she approached the throne of the Author of Love himself.

Down in the valley, valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,

Angels in Heaven know I love you,

Know I love you, dear, know I love you,

Angels in Heaven know I love you.

Credits: Mrs. B, for challenging me to buck the norm and follow the much more difficult road of classical music. Dr. C, for bringing the Rutter Gloria to SDSU. What a thrill!