O, Say, Can You Sing?

(I'll warn you here at the outset: This post has absolutely nothing to do with running.)

Have you ever wondered what goes on inside a singer's mind during a performance of The Star-Spangled Banner? I've certainly wondered that at times (hello, Roseanne Barr--WTF???), and Christina Aguilera's recent Super Bowl rendition lit up my Facebook feed like a Roman candle on crack (apparently, I was the only person not watching). 

I'll admit to being a bit of a purist when it comes to singing the National Anthem: no dramatic/diva-like vocal riffs, no creative license with the melody, not even the (in)famous "land of the free" octave jump. I just sing it straight. Of course, until recently, the only place I sang it was in the shower or in the car. So on Friday, February 18th, I was put to the test, singing the National Anthem at Albany's Times Union Center before the Albany Devils - Worcester Sharks AHL hockey game. I had already sung in this venue ("God Bless America" at the Albany Devils' season opener in October 2010), but that's a bit like saying if you've driven 85mph on the Thruway without getting nailed by the State Troopers, you're a shoo-in to win the Indy 500.

Coco Chanel famously said, "Dress shabbily and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably and they remember the woman." In a similar vein, there are three basic rules for singing the National Anthem:

1. Sing the notes that are written.

2. Remember the lyrics.

3. Start at a comfortably low pitch.

Or, as one of my dearest friends so eloquently put it: "Just remember the words and don't f*cking f*ck around with the f*cking melody. That's all I got. Other than start really really f*cking low."

Seriously, this shouldn't really be so hard. This is our National Anthem. Who didn't learn this song as a kid? Well, um...apparently, between school and adulthood, an average of 61% of Americans managed to forget the lyrics, according to a Harris Interactive Poll in 2004. And keep in mind, we're just talking about the first verse, which is pretty much all we ever hear sung.

It has been called a "notoriously unsingable song," mostly by pundits who want to substitute the "militancy" of The Star-Spangled Banner with a "prettier" song, like America the Beautiful or God Bless America. (Don't get me wrong, the latter two are lovely patriotic songs, but if you read the lyrics to The Star-Spangled Banner closely, you'll find that the anthem isn't about war and militancy; it's about courage under extreme trial and the endurance of a banner that represents principles like freedom and independence; the battle of Ft. McHenry during the War of 1812 just happens to be the backdrop that history provided to Francis Scott Key.) Despite its "notoriously unsingable" reputation, I have personally heard countless excellent renditions. Perhaps it's "notoriously unsingable" for people who can't carry a tune or don't sing much at all. Perhaps the bugaboo for some folks is the presence of long sentences with subordinate clauses. (In the latter case, reading just about any of the letters of St. Paul in the New Testament will provide ample opportunity for practice. Clearly, St. Paul didn't know from Strunk & White's The Elements of Style.)  Granted, the lyrics are from 19th Century poetry, but it's not as though we're singing words we've never heard before; the average high school graduate should be able to define most of the words in the song (yes, even "rampart").

Musically, the song seems to have a very challenging vocal range, but it's really only an octave and a half. Most "non-singers" can easily handle an octave, while elite singers often have ranges of three octaves. I haven't really checked my range in ages, but I'm somewhere around two octaves and a bit...on a good day. (The tune, incidentally, comes from an old British drinking song, so you'd think people would be able to sing it better after a few brewskis; perhaps we should start singing it during the seventh-inning stretch.) 

Of course, all kinds of things can happen when you're singing the National Anthem in front of a live audience. For every notorious "Barr-Strangled Banner" or the more recent woes of Christina Aguilera (who experienced what every singer dreads and often has flopsweat-inducing nightmares about), we have a more pleasant rendition, such as Whitney Houston's legendary rendition for the 1991 Super Bowl (a performance so moving that I don't even care that she was lip-synching to her own recording--and Whitney was one of the few singers who could do the octave jump without sounding vain). For many, Jimi Hendrix's landmark guitar version at Woodstock captures the "less conventional" patriotism of an entire generation in the midst of the Vietnam Era.

So when I was asked to sing the National Anthem, the first piece of advice that everyone gave to me was, "Don't pull a Christina." I lost count of the number of times I rehearsed the song between Wednesday (when I received the request) and Friday (when I was scheduled to perform). I vowed I would hit all the notes right and remember all the lyrics correctly. Oh, and to add just a teensy bit more pressure, AHL rules require the National Anthem to be sung in 90 seconds or less. (I typically come in around 80 seconds...WHEW!) If I was going to screw something up, it was not going to be the tune or the lyrics or the timing. This, of course, simply increased the likelihood that I would manage to fall on the ice and break my heinie. (Yeah, they had a rug for me to stand on...but I had to get to it first. Kevin, the Albany Devils representative who escorted me out onto the ice, told me there would be "like, one or two steps on the ice itself," but that I shouldn't worry, since he'd extend his arm for me to hold. I only half-jokingly informed him that I would have a death-grip on his arm.

So there I stood on my rug atop the ice as the announcer bade the audience to rise and face the flag. It's a good thing not to be Christina or Roseanne or Jimi or Whitney. I'm just me. Unless someone managed to remember me from singing "God Bless America" at the season opener, my performance probably came with a maximum expectation from most audience members of, "Don't screw up." If you know me or you've followed my blog, you've probably figured out already that my brain is wired, well, just slightly askew. My inner dialogue basically never shuts the hell up. On the plus side, that might just be the most interesting thing I have going for me.

So here's what was going through my mind as I sang the National Anthem. In real time. Over the course of 90 seconds. I only wish I were making this up.

‎"O, say, can you see..."
(Whew! I didn't start too high.)

"...by the dawn's early light..."
(Euw, did that sound a teeny bit shaky, and not with intentional vibrato?)

"...what so proudly we hailed..."
(Oh, CRAP, I totally popped that plosive on "proudly"!)

"...at the twilight's last gleaming..."
(What did I say? What is it supposed to be? Beaming? Streaming? No, doofus, you had it right. GLEAMING. Now, focus!)

"...whose broad stripes and bright stars..."
(Do NOT look at the big board. You already know you're up there. Just keep looking at the flag. Your hair looks fine.)

"...through the perilous fight..."
(DON'T PULL A CHRISTINA!)

"...o'er the ramparts we watched..."
(Move the damn mic away a bit, you popped another plosive!)

"...were so gallantly streaming..."
(Where did I leave my jacket? Oh, that's right; it's in the executive office. I need to remember to go back there and get it after I'm done singing. Oh, sh*t, what line am I on?")

"...And the rocket's red glare..."
(Remember how when Roger Clemens played for the Red Sox that the Fenway Faithful always cheered at "The Rocket" during the National Anthem? Even after he came back to Fenway in a Blue Jays uniform! But not after he became a f*cking Yankmee! Hey, I hit that high note pretty well!)

"...the bombs bursting in air..."
(Damn, more plosives. But better. That's a good distance for the mic. I wonder if C was able to get the video camera to work.)

"...gave proof through the night..."
(Wow, I'm almost done and haven't f*cked up. Sh*t! Don't jinx it!)

"...that our flag was still there..."
(BIG BREATH, BIG BREATH, BIG BREATH! I don't want to have to break the next line!)

"O, say, does that star-spangled..."
(CRAP! I didn't take a deep enough breath. I'm going to have to breathe here to get through "wave". CRAP. I hate it when I do that!)

"...banner yet wave..."
(Don't hold that last note too long; you've only got 90 seconds. But don't rush it, either. Wow, I really like that note.)

"...o'er the land of the free..."
(BOOYAH! NAILED that high note! Thank you, God!" No octave jump, thankyouverymuch! Hey, the crowd is starting to cheer. I'm almost done! Did somebody just say, "Sing it, Joan!"? Nah, nobody remembers the singer's name. Maybe he shouted, "Bring it home!" Or maybe I'm just hallucinating from insufficient oxygen. Yup, that's probably it.)

"...and the home of the braaaaaaaaaaaaave!"
(WHEW!!! I DID IT! Hey, the opposing team's goalie looks kinda cute. I wonder what he looks like without the mask? Ooh, time to get off the ice! DON'T FALL DOWN!)

Incidentally, after I finished singing, said opposing team's goalie said, "Nice job, eh!" (Ah, hockey...) 

Next, I'd like to drive the Zamboni.

The Winter of Our Discontent--Saved by a Tropical 5k

For those of you who are fortunate enough to have no knowledge of the dark, cold, bitter and blustery months in these parts, allow me to introduce you to my least favorite season. Winter is relentless in the Northeast, and this winter has been more tenacious than most in recent memory. For a while, it seemed as though each week brought another significant winter storm. Snow on snow, as the song goes, and this midwinter was feeling increasingly bleak indeed. When we weren't being pounded by yet another Nor'easter, we were enduring arctic blasts courtesy of our overly generous neighbors in the Great White North. (Seriously, must those Canadians be so insistent on sharing? They bestow their arctic air on us like your friend's Italian Nonna or Jewish Bubbie gives you "just another bite of food.") Given all of this, it's no wonder so many Northerners like me get downright belligerent about escaping winter's tenacious grasp. (As the e-card from one of my favorite Facebook friends put it, it has turned me into a "raging snow bitch.")

Last winter, which was nearly as brutal as this one has been, I promised myself I would escape next time, even if only briefly. The opportunity to see a college friend for the first time in 25 years meshed with a 5k that was scheduled to precede the ING Miami marathon: Ah, serendipity! Faster than you can say "Effing snow!" I booked a flight and started counting down to my sanity-saving D-Day.

The week before the flight, I rode a roller coaster of uncertainty as a major winter storm threatened most of the eastern half of the country. I spent that week desperately praying, bargaining with Providence, whining incessantly, and damn near willing the storm to move far out into the Atlantic. I was scheduled to fly out of frozen Upstate New York on Louis Zamperini's 94th birthday, so I hoped the Good Lord would do me a solid and let this very non-Olympic runner fly to her warm weather 5k without disappointment or delay. Although the storm would end up skirting south of Albany, for once sparing the Capital District, flight disruptions anywhere on the Eastern Seaboard  inevitably result in cascading delays, and the US's (and world's) busiest airport, Hartsfield-Jackson International in Atlanta, Georgia, will damn near always be affected. (But in fairness, they also seem to be the best able to deal with cascading delays, so I'll pretty much always try to connect through Atlanta.) My flight from Albany was delayed by an hour, which necessitated a change in my connecting flight from Atlanta to West Palm Beach--a change that Delta Airlines made automatically, saving me from the last headache I needed. I was ready to don a parka and slip some flight line dude a twenty to bungee-cord me to the wing of any aircraft headed to Florida.

I almost didn't want to leave Albany International (ha ha) Airport, between the pleasant ticket agent who informed me that the temperature in West Palm Beach was 74 sunny degrees, and the fairly handsome TSA security worker who complimented me on my driver's license photo.

My flights went smoothly, despite the erratic cadence of my seatmate's sleep-apnea induced lullaby. What would normally have annoyed me beyond belief barely registered on this flight, as the blue sky beyond the window hinted at warm weather in South Florida as the we cruised above the clouds, oblivious to the meteorological mayhem below.

As we landed in Atlanta, I waived in what I hoped was the direction of my dear friend, Kitty Whitty (she of the most effing awesomest name), who was working near the airport that day. I knew that she was waving back, even though I couldn't actually see her. As I waited during my brief layover in Atlanta, I was rather stunned to hear a woman's voice on the loudspeaker announce that my connecting flight would be operated by what I considered to be a rather dubious "Delta Partner" to West Palm Beach: Alaska Airways.

The trip would have its share of unwelcome surprises, including the unexpected hospitalization of one of my close relatives (who was also going to be taking care of my dogs during my vacation) and the ensuing juggling of a friend and another family member to make sure Las Bitchitas' basic needs were met. Thankfully, everything essentially worked out in the end, but it brought to mind for me the absolute necessity of having a contingency (and even tertiary) plan in place. Imagine being an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, perfectionist control freak like me, helpless to do anything about the situation because I was 1,500 miles away.

Once we landed in the South Florida night, I drove my bright school-bus yellow rental subcompact econo-box toward Delray Beach, where my friend Caroline waited with alcoholic beverages and "snacky-snacks." (And let me tell you, I'm a girl who loves herself some snacky-snacks.) We talked and laughed into the wee small hours, as if trying to cram 25 years into just a few hours. I have no doubt we broke some long-standing records for speed-talking.

Delray Beach is a beautiful, very clean, vibrant and upscale city by the sea, yet its tone is down-to-earth and friendly, with beautiful architecture and denizens whose dispositions seem as warm as the Florida sun. No wonder everyone was so friendly: this was their idea of "winter"; I could get used to that!

Over the next several days, there would be daily sunrise vigils, a lot of town and beach walking, excellent food, a few easy jogs, mansion-gawking up A1A and, of course, the Tropical 5k. The biggest treat for me, though, was getting to play model to Caroline's professional photography skills. With Vizcaya Museum and Gardens as the backdrop, she took the most stunning photographs ever taken of me. Some of the photos were more whimsical:

...while others were downright breathtaking (if you'll indulge me that bit of hyperbole--very few people have ever taken flattering photographs of me...including me):

After wandering through the hacienda-style Vizcaya mansion and exploring its extensive grounds, we drove over to Miami's famous Coconut Grove district for lunch at Lulu's, where I was introduced to fried green tomatoes and fish tacos. If you've never tried fish tacos, I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing. Caroline assured me I would enjoy them, and she was absolutely right. We coined a new term: "Fish tacos...who knew???" After lunch, we headed over toward the Miami Convention Center to pick up our race packets for the next day's Tropical 5k. This jaunt included some lovely scenery as we crossed several beautiful little islands, but also included a particularly wayward turn (because sometimes the GPS says "turn now" when it means "turn at the next intersection"), leading to my very own real-life "The Birdcage" moment as we got delayed on the same drawbridge Christine Baranski gets stuck on in the movie.

Saturday morning, we rose very early to drive down to Miami Beach, where the Tropical 5k would start in front of the Children's Museum. We arrived in darkness across the water from the berths of several large cruise ships. Our early arrival scored us an excellent parking spot and we watched the sun start to appear on the horizon as about 2,100 runners gathered near the start line. This would be my 21st 5k and Caroline's first. Race time temperatures were in the upper 40s--temperatures I would have killed for in Upstate New York in January, but apparently I'd subconsciously "gone native" and shivered through my raceday T-shirt.

The race began just after sunrise and as we ran toward the sun, its warmth quickly did away with the chill. The course was fairly straight and flat, except for a long, moderate bridge incline just after the second mile marker. I was puttering along at about a 13-minute pace, just glad to be running in warm weather. Once again, the reward of a uphill slog was the joyful downhill run--one of the few times when being a heavier runner works in my favor. There's a certain joie de vivre in scampering past a younger, slimmer, more experienced runner. Perhaps half a mile from the finish line, we were nearly waylaid by a fire engine that had to cross the street in front of us, but the Miami PD officers at the intersection maneuvered us expertly in a finely choreographed pattern that enabled the firefighters to get their engine through while we barely broke stride. (It probably helped that those of us on the road at that time were the slower runners.) I cheered and applauded Miami's Finest, called "Be safe!" to Miami's Bravest, and headed toward the last leg of the race.

As I turned the corner, I saw the finish line ahead and kicked in what little afterburners I had in me, crossing the finish line in 38:29. My time was nothing extraordinary, but I'd run the entire distance and hadn't run outside at all since the Lowell First Run 5k. While a PR would have been nice, my finish was good enough to give me a Wave M qualifying time for July's Peachtree Road Race.

I received my finisher's medal and headed back to the chute to watch for Caroline. When she came around the corner, she beamed and even worked a few poses in as I tried to snap a picture. Sadly, I'm no professional and the only shot my little camera ended up capturing was of part of her back.

By Monday, my South Florida sojourn was ending. There would be no more walks to the beach, no more sunrise vigils, no more sand between my toes for the foreseeable future, but there would be photographs and laughter and memories and a race with a revolving-palm-tree medal to help keep me warm and tide me over until the warmth returns to the Northeast.

I am convinced that there is very little that a palm tree and an ocean breeze and the surf's rhythm can't cure.