“This is an opera for children because it tries to recapture my own childhood. You see, when I was a child I lived in Italy, and in Italy we have no Santa Claus. I suppose that Santa Claus is much too busy with American children to be able to handle Italian children as well. Our gifts were brought to us by the Three Kings, instead.
“I actually never met the Three Kings—it didn’t matter how hard my little brother and I tried to keep awake at night to catch a glimpse of the Three Royal Visitors, we would always fall asleep just before they arrived. But I do remember hearing them. I remember the weird cadence of their song in the dark distance; I remember the brittle sound of the camel’s hooves crushing the frozen snow; and I remember the mysterious tinkling of their silver bridles.
Gian Carlo Menotti. Carl Van Vechten [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons“My favorite king was King Melchior, because he was the oldest and had a long white beard. My brother’s favorite was King Kaspar. He insisted that this king was a little crazy and quite deaf. I don’t know why he was so positive about his being deaf. I suspect it was because dear King Kaspar never brought him all the gifts he requested. He was also rather puzzled by the fact that King Kaspar carried the myrrh, which appeared to him as a rather eccentric gift, for he never quite understood what the word meant.
“To these Three Kings I mainly owe the happy Christmas seasons of my childhood and I should have remained very grateful to them. Instead, I came to America and soon forgot all about them, for here at Christmas time one sees so many Santa Clauses scattered all over town. Then there is the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza, the elaborate toy windows on Fifth Avenue, the one-hundred-voice choir in Grand Central Station, the innumerable Christmas carols on radio and television—and all these things made me forget the three dear old Kings of my old childhood.
“But in 1951 I found myself in serious difficulty. I had been commissioned by the National Broadcasting Company to write an opera for television, with Christmas as deadline, and I simply didn’t have one idea in my head. One November afternoon as I was walking rather gloomily through the rooms of the Metropolitan Museum, I chanced to stop in front of the Adoration of the Kings by Hieronymus Bosch, and as I was looking at it, suddenly I heard again, coming from the distant blue hills, the weird song of the Three Kings. I then realized they had come back to me and had brought me a gift.”
—Gian-Carlo Menotti, from the booklet with the original cast recording of Amahl and the Night Visitors
No, it’s not the swimming pool. It’s not the hot tub. It’s not the gorgeous male trainers.
It’s the closed captions.
Some machines at the gym have TV monitors attached so users won’t become bored. A wise move.
My first day on the recumbent bike, I said to myself, “Oh, pish-tosh! I don’t need television. I have an active mind and a rich internal life.”
The second day, I discovered my internal life isn’t rich enough to keep me pedaling for twenty minutes without my active mind imploding. So–on with the TV. Since I hadn’t brought earbuds, I turned on the closed captions.
Viewing choices are limited: some cable movies, lots of sports, a travel show, all about as stimulating as watching your knees rise and fall. But one news station runs unscripted programs, most related to business and the economy.
And the closed captions for those unscripted programs are a hoot.
During one session, I managed to take notes. Here are some of the fragments I recorded. Remember, the program was about finance, and my knees were moving up and down at 9.4 mph.
Captions
1. … when people gathered to talk about the economy and cucumbers…
2. …too much of Peoria for political to sin…
3. …when like at Europe the monkey is struggling and falling apart…
4. …and to see Barry big surprise interest from some pastries…
5. …we have the armpit that all of our options fade with time…
6. …the importance of a kiwi in Europe…
7. …call the stow the hillbilly of what is coming…
8. …take on a ministry the comics not to forget…
9. …the markets found some milk without the markets coming up…
10. …learned from a tumor and people said a tomato…
All that in just one session of violent bodily exertion. What more could I want?
Yesterday earbuds were available, but plugging them in didn’t cross my mind. Nor did announcing my find.
Those captions are my own little secret. When other cyclers look my way, wondering why I laugh aloud, they can just wonder.
And when the rest of the health nuts have dropped out from indolence and ennui, and I alone register perfect attendance, and when the muscleiest trainer can’t drag me off the bike, the Powers That Be will admire, nay revere, me. And they will give me head pats.
Having spent the week engaged in selfish pursuits, I wanted to do one good deed before midnight–less than half an hour from now.
I’ve chosen to share a story: Keith Olbermann reading James Thurber’s “The Dog That Bit People.”
I met Thurber in fifth grade, when all students, K-12, were herded into
Front of the James Thurber House, located at 77 N. Jefferson Avenue in Columbus, Ohio. Built in 1873, it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and it is a part of a Register-listed historic district, the Jefferson Avenue Historic District. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
the auditorium to hear high school students practice for an upcoming Interscholastic League prose reading competition. Cullen Myers Dauchy read “The Night the Ghost Got In.”
By the end of the first page, I was in love.
Five years later, I had the pleasure of preparing Thurber’s “The Dog That Bit People” for the same competition. Although I never read it in contest–it fell under category C, and for three years in a row, the contest manager drew A or B–I loved the story of Muggs, who sank his teeth into everyone except Mrs. Thurber–and he went for her once–and in old age, walked through the house muttering like Hamlet following his father’s ghost.
I can’t share Thurber’s drawing of Muggs, so I’ve posted a photo from Wikipedia. This dog looks sweet, not grumpy, and Muggs was “a big, burly, choleric dog,” so for the full effect, you’ll have to imagine him with wearing a frown.
Muggs lived in the house on Jefferson Avenue, also pictured here.
Kathy Waller 