Leaves of Greensa Southern oratorio in 3 parts

Price Walden

Commissioned by the Southern Foodways Alliancefor the 2011 “Cultivated South” Symposium.

Dedicated with great love and respect to my grandparents

Composerʼs Note

When the Southern Foodways Alliance first approached me with the idea ofa “collard green opera,” my first instinct was to immediately run the otherway. However, the more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed tome. The Southern tradition is full of things that are grandiose and larger-than-life; why not apply that notion to such a peculiar and beloved vegetable?

The bulk of the text comes from a collection of poems entitled Leaves ofGreens: the Collard Poems, published in 1984 by the annual Ayden Collard Green Festival in North Carolina, supplemented by a few more poems and traditional hymns. The structure of the piece is in 3 main parts, each dealing with a different aspect of Southern life: relationships with parents, Southernmythology, and relationships with grandparents.

Leaves of Greens is scored for soloists, choir, piano and percussion andlasts approximately 25 minutes.

1. Introit: Praisesongs

Open wide the windowsLet the pungent aromaOf a tantalizing leafy delightMingle with the atmosphere.

Let it boil lowWhile flavored withBeef neckbones one dayOr tender hamhocks anotherAnd fried streak oʼ leanSide meat in between.

God gave man imagination,Crisp golden cornbreadAnd early morning dew-touchedCollard greens.

Masticate and sop if you please.Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.Yessir.Heavenly-sent collard greens.

(Lord...have mercy)

Pearl Spaulding

Let us break bread together on our knees;Let us break bread together on our knees;When I fall on my knees, with my face to the rising sun,O Lord, have mercy on me. A-men.

Traditional

Part One: To the Virgins, Who Donʼt Pick Enough in Time

2. Aria

When I was real little, my mama would say,“Child eat your collards, donʼt push them away.”But that word made me shudder, and Iʼd beg and say “PleaseI donʼt even like Spinach, donʼt make me eat these.”

But after my pleading, bad becomes worse.“You donʼt eat your collards, you get no dessert!”So I mustered enough courage to take the first biteAnd I found out then that my mama was right.

So now when I look at a table thatʼs spreadwith casseroles, pastas, fish, meat, and bread,I search through the bounty and say, “By all meansFill up this plate with them Collard Greens.”

Annie Vondohlen

3. Recitative and Aria

My mother said many times beforeshe died, “The only way to get ridof nutgrass is to move off and leave it.”Now she has moved off and left it. It

no longer invades her garden, butwe must still work ours. My father,too weak to hoe, sinks to his kneesin the damp earth, small spade

in hand. Something we will nevername growing inside his body, breakingit down, cell by cell. Sprig after sprighe digs it up, knowing all the while that

his efforts are futile. Somewhere

below lie irremovable roots, intertwinedwith the earth itself, that keep pushingthe stems up into the light. Still

he digs, making a small havenaround his [collards],not quite ready to relinquishthis small piece of ground.

Tony Bland

4. Chorus

Gather ye collards while ye maythe stalks are brown and dyingthe familyʼs home aʼwaitinʼand the fatbackʼs already frying.

Debbie Adkins

Part Two: My Sole Credentials

5. Riff

You know who used to wear a collard in his lapel just like a proudcarnation?

Thelonious Sphere Monk from North Carolina is who.

I like to imagine some hotstuff jazz critic—maybe Leonard Feather or another jiveass—asking, Say Monk what is that thing youʼve got on?

And Thelonious replies:You looking at my sole credentials.

Fred Chappell

6. Trio

Green hens perching the poleOf a row, concentric wings

Fly you down into soil.

You catch rain like rings.Where a pine stump tunnels

Time backward down rootsʼ seasonings.

If roots rot to dark channelsMining the forest, your fiber

Threads grease in the entrails

Of families, whose bodies harborScars like rain on a hillslope,

Whose skin takes sheen like lumber

Left out in the weather. Old folkSeem sewed together by pulp

Of your green rope and smoke

From the cook fires boys gulpFor dinner along roads in winter.

Collards and ham grease they drop

In the pot come back as we enterThe house whose porch shows a pumpkin.

This steam holds all we remember.

Sweet potatoes clot in a bin.Common flesh beneath this skin

Like collards, Grainy-sweet kin.

James Applewhite

Part Three: A Vigil

7. Hymn

Bread of Heavʼn on Thee we feed,For thy flesh is meat indeed:Ever may our souls be fedWith this our true and living Bread;Day by day with strength supplied,Through the life of Him Who died.

8. Duet

Thanksgiving sacrament, piety of crystal and silver.Platters and dishes passed on from hand to hand.Words so well-worn they drone with the summertime fan.My grandfather blessing, his countenance fields in the sunlight.

The way my grandmother taught me to make collardsis very simple. The idea is to boil the hocks until they begin

to fall apart.

I waited beside him for words, for what heʼd gatheredFrom hawks wheeling sun, oak leavesʼ tension under glare.

Since this is a lot of collards, you will need toadd them until the pot is full. Then allow them

to wilt as they cook - then add more....cook on medium heat.

Taste to confirm they are the tenderness that you prefer.

His parchment skin was the seasonʼs hieroglyphic.Going for water, I passed through the company parlor:Mantle with mirror and clock, stiff plush and varnish.

I poured from a pitcher. Tracing a beaded trickle,Sweat down a frosted tumbler. Sensation of OctoberIn August.

People in my neck of the woods usuallysprinkle lots of hot sauce on their collards.

I like them that way.Give it a try.

I sat on the porch beside him, spell-bound by columns.Horizon woven to softening by orbits of swallows.

Since this is a large pot full, just save theextras in the refrigerator. They should keep for a long time

and get better as they age.

“Itʼs been eighty-six years and it seems like a day.”

James Applewhite/Walden

9. Finale

From age to age the South has holleredThe praises of the toothsome collard.Our parentsʼ precepts we have folleredAnd countless messes we have swallered.When times were hard, a single dollarʼdBuy ample potfulls of the collard.And any help nutrition scholarʼdGive highest rating to the collard.Full many a happy hog has walleredIn luscious leaves of wilting collard.Yes, keep your cordon bleu--By Gollard!Iʼd trade it all for one big collard!

Cicely C. Browne

Music DirectorAmanda Johnston

Cast

SopranoCourtney Bennett

Betsy BrueningKimberly Coleman

Katie EdenfieldDonica PhiferChloe Sturges

Mezzo-sopranoNancy McBride

Lizzie Williamson

TenorMark Camire

Clay Terry

BaritoneBrent StraussAndrew Ross

PianoAmanda Johnston

VibraphoneJosh Hall