Episode Details

This week’s story is “The Ice Giants,” recorded by Franz Xaver von Schönwerth.

This cold snap is really something else, man, I’m telling you. Cailleach Beara ever tightens her icy grip on the long-shadowed land.

I ventured out for a bit of social severance in the midst of this icy nonsense, but I didn’t stay out for long. The Old Hag plastered the forest in rimy sheets of cellophane; no surface was spared for miles. Walking down the Old Valley Trail, I saw hoof marks made before the ice was laid—along with depressions near the unsteady sections adjacent to the fallen trees. The frozen concavities marked where the deer lost their footing and collapsed on the ice. I’m not even half as graceful as any woodland animal, so if they were slipping and sliding on the ice, how much chance did I have to stay upright?

It turns out I had none at all. I didn’t so much slip and fall as I had the world violently wrenched away from me on more than a handful of occasions. I slammed onto the ice, cutting up my hand and doing a number on my legs. There was just nothing for it, I couldn’t get any handle on the ice without crampons. So, I slid down the hillsides with no way to steer my descent, the palm part of my gloves cut to ribbons.

I did spend some time at the inlet and enjoyed the isolation and the company of birds, but I didn’t stay long. On my way back, I had to use branches to smash the ice just enough to give my feet somewhere to be while I chipped away at making stairs out of the valley. It was just far too dangerous to stay out there.

Sometimes, warm blankets and fireside activities are not just the most but the only sensible thing.

Sitting at home is when I noticed it, though.

A missing half.

I wondered if I might be able to show it to you, too.

When we’re snowed in like this, my wife and I will often watch a movie or a TV show. (Currently, we’re rewatching Northern Exposure.) We’ll also read or listen to a podcast. My daughter’s best friend is in a dance group, and she’s often talking about joining. My wife suggested maybe we get her piano lessons, too, like she had done.

Okay then. Let’s start with those piano lessons and dance group.

Despite the difference in activity, they’re run pretty much the same. The kids practice the sheet music or the choreography to such a level that they can then put on a recital. At that recital, they play their music or dance their dances in the way their teacher taught them, with parents looking on from the gymnasium wall, or the folded chairs provided by the venue.

That’s it, that’s what we think “music lessons” are. That’s what “learning dance” is.

Except it isn’t always.

When kids learn music, they could learn to read sheet music and play “hot cross buns” by rote, or they could hang out with grandpa and his banjo. Grandpa might give ‘em some spoons or a sack of marbles and say, “alright, boys and girls, follow me.” First they learn the beat, then simple rhythms, then in a few months, maybe they’ll take on a string instrument themselves. When they do, they learn an entirely different musical ethos than that of piano recitals. They learn that songs need their interpretation, their voice, and their unique way of laying down the melody. They learn that it’s not only alright but expected to participate in the lyrics, not just regurgitate them. That part of the etiquette of playing a song is to tell people it was grandpa who first taught it to you.

As for dance, you can join a dance group, sure, and learn specific choreography to compete against other groups at competitions. Or you could hit up the Friday night dance in town and learn to improvise with a partner. Practice getting your steps in sync with the band—because of course there’s a live band—and so when they change it up, you’re ready to follow them and the caller. There are no competitions there, only communities whose only goal is parti