THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 16, 1994 TAG: 9412160556
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: GUY FRIDDELL
LENGTH: Medium: 66 lines
Word that Catherine Shouse, founder of Wolf Trap Farm, had died at 98 brought to mind her foray into Norfolk when she was 82.
She had a penchant for sweeping up anybody she met in her quest to nurture Wolf Trap. I had interviewed her in 1974 for a book on Washington, and that day in 1979 she called to recruit me as a guide.
Intent on publicizing a Virginia Day at Wolf Trap, she visited six radio stations and one for TV.
With her was a brown-eyed Susan of a young woman, Maria Downs, and a driver, Zhigniew Wudzinski, a Polish youth who had been in this country 10 months. As the day sped by, he became Zigh.
When we reached a station, I raced inside to herald her arrival.
A tall, blonde, ample, regal figure with piercing blue eyes, she advanced, a golden cumulous cloud that quelled the staffs.
Captivated, DJs ignored deadlines, and we had to move ever faster between stations. ``The Little Father'' she took to calling me, as I swept them in, out, onward.
She refused to stop for lunch.
``Keep going!'' she said.
At dusk - famished, tired - they pondered what to do.
``Y'all come on out to supper and spend the night,'' I said.
In a pause at a traffic light near home, I dashed into a grocery store, grabbed filet mignons, lettuce, tomatoes, a half gallon of Brunswick stew, cherry pie. And told the clerk at the register: ``Tell Gin I'm three minutes away with three guests for supper and bed.''
At home, as Gin opened the door - she was in an apron, having set the table - I said, ``Honey, here is Mrs. Catherine Shouse, founder of Wolf Trap, whom you've always longed to meet, and two friends.''
As they freshened up, she asked me: ``What are we going to eat and where is it?''
``In the kitchen: steaks, salad, stew, cherry pie. Biscuits would help.''
They did, indeed. Gin excused herself, briefly, during the meal and invited art-minded friends to join us later. They rallied and did.
It gave me a chance, while Mrs. Shouse beamed, to remark on the glories of Wolf Trap: Filene Center, a 10-story, open-faced concert hall.
Of natural Oregon cedar mellowing orange-brown, the color of a bass viol, the Center itself seems a magnificent musical instrument.
Supporting its roof and opening the auditorium on both sides to the outdoors are huge louvers, great columns in a redwood forest. Seen segmented between the louvers, the foliage outside forms elegant 10-story streamers of green tapestries.
Night breezes sweep the hall. A mockingbird joins the National Symphony Orchestra. A bobwhite's call punctuates a musical tribute to Thoreau.
On the hillside, couples bring a picnic in one basket, a baby in another. ``The babies never cry,'' said Mrs. Shouse. ``I've never heard a baby cry at Wolf Trap.''
They cry, all right, but the sound mingles with the sawing of cicadas, fades under the stars, and goes unnoticed, so nobody hears.
Next day, mid-morning, we waved them away in their limousine. Gin regarded me, wordless.
``See there,'' I said. ``All it took was a little advance warning.'' ILLUSTRATION: Photo
Catherine Shouse
by CNB