An Evening at Ravinia
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The summer of Chicago in 1988 was hot, as I had expected it to be, but I found it simply unbearable. To make the matter worse, there had been no rain for quite a long time in the area, and the lawn around my temporary residence at Polk Street had to be watered regularly by the sprinklers. The breeze from Michigan Lake, the invaluable grace for the Chicagoans in summer, was of little value before the savage fury of the heat-wave that danced wildly above 100 degrees day after day.
But I had to brave the weather. I had one more place to go before I leave Chicago. Time was running short. From the day I arrived at Chicago, I came to get acquainted with a place called 'Ravinia' through the grapevine. As I came to know more about it, I came to like it even before I saw it, as if a man who fell in love with a woman he had never seen before in his life.
If you drive an hour or so to the north from the heart of Chicago along the Sheridan Road, you will arrive at Ravinia. Ravinia in appearance is just one of the ubiquitous beautiful parks you can see anywhere in the United States, with lovely, well-grown trees, immaculately-tended lawns, flower gardens, and benches; where you can sit, stretch out on back or on your stomach: stroll, jog, and give rest to your tired eyes in the soothing color of green in summer and in yellow and red in fall.
But Ravinia in reality, with its long history and unique tradition, is an institution, a culture, and a constant flow of activity. In 1944, Mrs. Louis Eckstein deeded Ravinia Park to Ravinia Festival Association from her husband's estate, so that people and music lovers of Chicago might enjoy great music in an idyllic setting far from the bustle and noise of the city. Since then, a number of friends of Ravinia, through generous bequests and gifts, have made it possible for 'that special place' to engage the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for a summer residency, and to present visiting orchestras and world-renowned soloists.
Ravinia was holding its 53rd Season Festival when I arrived there in company with Mr. and Mrs. Harris and their two young sons, Jeremy(8) and Colin(10). We were all strangers to the place, but I couldn't feel strange about it at all the moment I mingled with those early-comers who were having a picnic on the meadow. They were eating, talking, laughing, and greeting with one another with smiles, winks, and noddings. I could not but be happy in such a happy company. It was July 10, Sunday, around five o'clock in the afternoon.
At around six we spread our food, fried chickens, on the lawn and began to eat when raindrops fell on our heads. What could be more welcome than sweet rain for the earth that was suffering from severe drought? But why, why should it be today, on a picnic day! There was pain on everyone's face. We took shelter under the spreading trees nearby as many others did, and some under the scanty eaves of the buildings in the park. Some youngsters in their T-shirts stayed put where they were and seemed to enjoy getting soaked in the long-awaited rain.
I prayed fervently it would be the passing rain. And it was. The rain stopped in about 10 minutes and the sun came out again through the clouds drying immediately the pearly drops of rain dangling and twinkling on the leaves of grass and of the trees. People came back to their former place instantly, like a colorful shoal of tropical fish emerging from their hiding place in the corals with the disappearance of danger.
The concert began at eight. Leaving my company on the lawn, I walked to the place where melodies came from. It was from the Pavilion, an open and loose construction specially made at a corner of the park for musical performances. I could not go in it. I paid only $6 for the lawn, not $30 for a seat in the Pavilion. Nevertheless, owning to my ever unfailing preparedness, I could see everything I wanted to see on the stage. I had taken a binoculars with me. The ever ebullient James Levine was on the podium with his Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Beethoven's Symphony 8 was over, and there appeared, with applause exploding, Aprile Millo for her Ravinia debut with arias from Verdi and Beethoven. Sometimes high and sometimes low, sometimes with fiery passion and sometimes with flowing ease, her voice rose and fell, and fell and rose. All the audience, including the conductor of the orchestra, James Levine himself, seemed hypnotized by her voice, "the next important Verdi soprano after Maria Callas," as the critics unanimously agreed. She left the stage, but had to come back several times to still the unceasing applause. The trouble with me was that I could not applaud because of the binoculars I was holding in my hand.
When I came back to join my company, the two children were asleep on the lawn, and Mr. and Mrs. Harris were sitting up hand in hand looking at the stars that were shining brighter and closer than any stars I had ever seen anywhere. The brisk and suave melodies of Felix Mendelssohn's Symphony 4 floating in the air seemed to have sent them into a trance. Many a young lovers were in another's arms. They would not move even long after the music was over.
Now I am thousands of miles away from Ravinia. It's winter. Looking at the snowflakes falling outside my window, I picture Ravinia to myself. What would it be like in winter? It would surely be as beautiful in winter with the snow-laden trees and snow-covered meadows. It is very likely that I will not be at Ravinia again in my life, but I will not grieve. As long as the red mug at my desk that I bought at the Ravinia gift shop remains with me on my desk, the glimpse of Heaven I caught at Ravinia that evening will remain with me forever.
(January 10, 1990)
But I had to brave the weather. I had one more place to go before I leave Chicago. Time was running short. From the day I arrived at Chicago, I came to get acquainted with a place called 'Ravinia' through the grapevine. As I came to know more about it, I came to like it even before I saw it, as if a man who fell in love with a woman he had never seen before in his life.
If you drive an hour or so to the north from the heart of Chicago along the Sheridan Road, you will arrive at Ravinia. Ravinia in appearance is just one of the ubiquitous beautiful parks you can see anywhere in the United States, with lovely, well-grown trees, immaculately-tended lawns, flower gardens, and benches; where you can sit, stretch out on back or on your stomach: stroll, jog, and give rest to your tired eyes in the soothing color of green in summer and in yellow and red in fall.
But Ravinia in reality, with its long history and unique tradition, is an institution, a culture, and a constant flow of activity. In 1944, Mrs. Louis Eckstein deeded Ravinia Park to Ravinia Festival Association from her husband's estate, so that people and music lovers of Chicago might enjoy great music in an idyllic setting far from the bustle and noise of the city. Since then, a number of friends of Ravinia, through generous bequests and gifts, have made it possible for 'that special place' to engage the Chicago Symphony Orchestra for a summer residency, and to present visiting orchestras and world-renowned soloists.
Ravinia was holding its 53rd Season Festival when I arrived there in company with Mr. and Mrs. Harris and their two young sons, Jeremy(8) and Colin(10). We were all strangers to the place, but I couldn't feel strange about it at all the moment I mingled with those early-comers who were having a picnic on the meadow. They were eating, talking, laughing, and greeting with one another with smiles, winks, and noddings. I could not but be happy in such a happy company. It was July 10, Sunday, around five o'clock in the afternoon.
At around six we spread our food, fried chickens, on the lawn and began to eat when raindrops fell on our heads. What could be more welcome than sweet rain for the earth that was suffering from severe drought? But why, why should it be today, on a picnic day! There was pain on everyone's face. We took shelter under the spreading trees nearby as many others did, and some under the scanty eaves of the buildings in the park. Some youngsters in their T-shirts stayed put where they were and seemed to enjoy getting soaked in the long-awaited rain.
I prayed fervently it would be the passing rain. And it was. The rain stopped in about 10 minutes and the sun came out again through the clouds drying immediately the pearly drops of rain dangling and twinkling on the leaves of grass and of the trees. People came back to their former place instantly, like a colorful shoal of tropical fish emerging from their hiding place in the corals with the disappearance of danger.
The concert began at eight. Leaving my company on the lawn, I walked to the place where melodies came from. It was from the Pavilion, an open and loose construction specially made at a corner of the park for musical performances. I could not go in it. I paid only $6 for the lawn, not $30 for a seat in the Pavilion. Nevertheless, owning to my ever unfailing preparedness, I could see everything I wanted to see on the stage. I had taken a binoculars with me. The ever ebullient James Levine was on the podium with his Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Beethoven's Symphony 8 was over, and there appeared, with applause exploding, Aprile Millo for her Ravinia debut with arias from Verdi and Beethoven. Sometimes high and sometimes low, sometimes with fiery passion and sometimes with flowing ease, her voice rose and fell, and fell and rose. All the audience, including the conductor of the orchestra, James Levine himself, seemed hypnotized by her voice, "the next important Verdi soprano after Maria Callas," as the critics unanimously agreed. She left the stage, but had to come back several times to still the unceasing applause. The trouble with me was that I could not applaud because of the binoculars I was holding in my hand.
When I came back to join my company, the two children were asleep on the lawn, and Mr. and Mrs. Harris were sitting up hand in hand looking at the stars that were shining brighter and closer than any stars I had ever seen anywhere. The brisk and suave melodies of Felix Mendelssohn's Symphony 4 floating in the air seemed to have sent them into a trance. Many a young lovers were in another's arms. They would not move even long after the music was over.
Now I am thousands of miles away from Ravinia. It's winter. Looking at the snowflakes falling outside my window, I picture Ravinia to myself. What would it be like in winter? It would surely be as beautiful in winter with the snow-laden trees and snow-covered meadows. It is very likely that I will not be at Ravinia again in my life, but I will not grieve. As long as the red mug at my desk that I bought at the Ravinia gift shop remains with me on my desk, the glimpse of Heaven I caught at Ravinia that evening will remain with me forever.
(January 10, 1990)
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