Finding And Losing The Music

We’ve had several snowstorms in the past week, lovely: light snow piling on top of the skating rink that is our driveway, a remnant of the odd January rain. I have been donning my googles to drive the ATV in hopeless, high pursuit of Muir each morning. I learned the hard way that even light snow has ice crystals in it and, without goggles, my eyes were painfully pelted. The goggles help with the ice but not with fashion.

Music performances have begun to bloom and I was asked to take the lead of a string/voice performance that I have been part of for several years. I fairly quickly was able to assemble the four string voices including the violist who had been part of the group since its inception nearly 40 years ago. I knew he had struggled with many health issues both before and during Covid but I felt a loyalty to him. In my request, I spelled out the significant number of rehearsals and the several performances that would be needed. He assured me that it could work. We talked and laughed about music and hung up. Preparation demanded that I confirm with everyone many times and I could not reach him for several weeks over the holidays. When I was finally able to speak with him he told me that he had been hospitalized over Christmas but felt ready to go. As we were talking, his wife took the phone from him, with some argument, and told me that she didn’t have any idea why he was planning to do this, he had several health problems, they only had one car now and she would have to drive him everywhere, something she did not feel she would be able to do either. Added to that, she told me, in a conspiratorial voice that he could hear, he had not picked up his viola in two years. It became immediately clear to me that what I was dealing with was someone’s desire to do something clouding judgment on his ability to actually do it.

As she continued to talk, he hollered responses in the background and I swallowed hard and thought fast. If I let him play, I knew I would be doing a disservice to the entire group to the extent of risking the performance entirely. If I didn’t let him play, I would be hurting someone that I consider a friend. It wasn’t just Covid stealing time, it was the process of aging as well. He had been a very fine musician and it meant a great deal to him. I could hear the small plea in his voice and the strength of resolution in his wife’s.

Sensing my hesitation so he jumped in with a Hail Mary, “Why don’t we just wait and see how it works.” I felt the enormous weight of responsibility as I spoke. I told him that I didn’t think that would work, that I had seven other people to consider and, as much as we loved and cared about him, this just didn’t sound like the right idea for him, or the group. There was silence.

He didn’t argue as he answered quietly, “OK love, you are the boss.”

And so it ended.

The winter recital of my cello studio was last weekend. My student David and I had been talking about him playing with his granddaughter Millie, nine, who is studying the violin. I’d met Millie and needed no intro to her adorability. I asked if they would play a duet as part of his recital work. The following week I received an affirmative response with an extra dollop of Millie-enthusiasm on top. Millie loves all things Harry Potter so Paul and I arranged the theme for them to play together.

The day of the recital Millie levitated into the church, her violin case in hand. “Where should I sit?” she smiled at me excitedly.

When David and Millie were able to rehearse for a few minutes before the recital started, Millie and her nerves were introduced. She looked at me, sitting in front of them both, with a bit of panic. I assured her that I could “count” by tapping my foot while they were performing, giving her a snazzy kind of metronome. She nodded.

They played fifth on the program- early enough so they didn’t have to wait too long, but not in the dreaded first spot. Millie’s mom, David’s daughter, and family sat three rows back, cameras at the ready: the big smiles on their faces ones that we reserve for our children. The smile, intended to encourage and assure, the tears, optional. They began in unison and then headed onto their own musical paths, like life really. When Millie had to count the longer beats while David played the melody, I tapped my foot steadily, quietly enough for her alone to hear. When they finished she turned to her Opa and grinned, the grin children reserve for their most trusted loved ones. She bobbed her head in tiny bows with the neck of her violin clutched in her hand.

At the mandatory cookie part of the recital, Millie came over to me, cookie clenched in one fist and gave me a waist-hug, “I love my violin.” she said quietly, eyes closed for emphasis.

And so it began.