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Opal’s Recital

December 25, 2014 Leave a comment

A short story based in Bermuda.

I recognised her silhouette in the distance, down the narrow, tree-lined railway trail that I walked every morning before work. If I stick to my schedule and she to hers, our paths cross just after Cobbs Hill Road where overhanging branches form a leafy tunnel. There’s a wooden bench before the tracks open into the daylight again, and she often sits on it, resting. That Thursday, she held the back of the bench with one hand and her dog’s leash with the other. Corky pulled at his leash, eager to continue their walk, but his owner watched me as I approached.
“Hi, Mrs. Tucker,” I called out.
“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Tucker said. “Another Bermudaful December day, isn’t it?”
I agreed. “I hope it will stay this way, so I can get in a swim or two at Elbow Beach over the holiday. Back home, I’d be building a snowman.”
“So far the forecast is clear and mild all the way to Boxing Day,” she reported.
I bent down to Corky, who wiggled and squirmed as I tickled his round belly. His excited doggie antics usually made me laugh.
“This will be my first Christmas away from my family,” I told her. “I just started my job, so I can’t get any time off.”
A white object caught my eye. When I stood up, Mrs. Tucker held it out to me.
“I thought so,” she said. “I wonder if you would humour an old lady and come for Christmas dinner. My daughter, Crystal, will be there with a couple of her friends and some others.”
She extended an envelope to me and I accepted it.
“Nobody should be alone for Christmas,” she said with a smile. Then she allowed Corky to pull her forward to continue their slow walk.

#####

A few days later, I stood on the doorstep of Mrs. Tucker’s Warwick cottage, mentally debating over the simple action of lifting the knocker to announce my arrival. I was still unsure about spending the evening with strangers, and I had backed away from the door just as it swung open.
“How long were you going to stand there? The door was open,” said a woman wearing an apron with a red-nosed reindeer on the bib.
“Merry Christmas! I’m Crystal,” she said.

She linked her arm into mine and escorted me to the dining room where the other guests were already seated at the long table. Mrs. Tucker had collected a hodgepodge of acquaintances and friends. When she made the introductions, she included the stipulation that we must call her Opal from then on. We shared the common element that we would have spent Christmas alone if not for Opal’s gentle persuasion. Among the group was a widower from her church’s choir, a newlywed whose husband worked in a hotel restaurant, a nurse, and Evan, a quiet man of no fixed abode.
After Crystal brought the last dish out from the kitchen, Opal stood to say the blessing. Without prompting, we each sought out the hands of our table neighbours to form an unbroken chain. Afterward, conversations resumed as we passed each dish family style until we had loaded our plates with selections from Opal’s extensive menu.
Leaning toward Opal, I asked, “Haven’t you ever wanted a white Christmas?”
“I’ve spent every Christmas of my life in Bermuda,” she answered, “except for one when I thought I should go somewhere else for a change. Somewhere with snow or neon lights or crowds.” She shook her head. “Not for me. I missed playing for the church cantata and carolling door to door. I love helping with the Christmas hampers and teaching my grandchildren to make cassava pie and sugar cookies. I used to love the smell of cedar trees but I’m used to these imported ones now. Besides, gombeys don’t dance in snow. Whenever I heard those drums in the neighbourhood on Boxing Day, I would follow them all over the place.”
One story led to another throughout the meal until Crystal shooed us from the dinner table.
“Follow me, everyone,” she said, leading us to the tree. As animated chatter swirled around the cosy living room, Opal cast a wistful eye toward her beloved instrument. A beautiful baby grand piano dominated the far corner of the room, its ebony lid supported a deep red poinsettia. Corky’s little, plaid dog bed was nestled under the piano, but he had abandoned it for parts unknown at the noise of our entrance. I wondered if what Opal most missed about Christmas was playing carols on her piano. She had dedicated her life to the performance, and then teaching, of music until her arthritic fingers restricted her ability.
Opal distributed the gifts, a small memento of our Christmas together. I unwrapped a CD by Bermudian musicians, a fitting gift from the former piano teacher.
“But we didn’t get anything for you,” Nina protested. The petite nurse seemed distraught that Opal gave so graciously but had not received.
“Your company is enough,” she answered with a gentle smile. The discreet action of rubbing her hands in her lap did not escape me, and I wondered if the rigors of preparing for her guests had pushed her joints beyond comfort.
For a few strained moments, we sat in motionless contemplation. As a recipient of the woman’s hospitality, I felt humbled and warmed. Crystal looked around at the sombre group, crossed the room, and sat on the piano bench.
“Remember my favourite song, Mom?” Crystal called out, glancing at her mother before turning her attention back to the sheet music. She gathered a willing quartet of guests around the piano and led them in a medley of carols. The group sang heartily while the rest of us joined in from our seats.
“The first Noël the angels did say,
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay . . .”
From a floral wing-backed chair, Opal nodded to the music, her foot tapped as if pumping the pedal feet of the piano. Away in a Manger followed It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, and then we giggled our way through an improvised Bermudian version of The Twelve Days of Christmas which changed the mood from meditative to boisterous. What would we have been doing if not for Opal’s invitation and open doors? A group of homesick strangers now well fed, joyous, and familial, surrounded by flickering candles and blinking tree lights.
“What’s your favourite song?” Nina asked Opal.
There’s a Song in the Air,” she replied without hesitation.
“There certainly is!” Nina answered. She turned back to Crystal, expecting her to play a prelude.
“I never played it as well as my mother,” Crystal confessed, flipping through a book to find another song.
“And I’m, well, a little out of practice,” Opal said with a stilted laugh. She lifted her fingers to show her knotted joints. She shrugged in resignation. “Old Arthur’s got me.”
Evan leaned over and covered the woman’s hands with his and studied her disheartened expression.
“Give it a try,” he coaxed. “I know you can play it this once. Have faith,”
Except for the appropriately placed ‘thank you’ and ‘please’, it was the most Evan had spoken all evening. Opal did not protest but pushed herself from the chair and walked to the bench. Her daughter stood and the two women changed places. Opal closed the song book and neatly stacked the music in a small pile on the edge of the bench. She paused for a moment, spreading her fingers over the keys, and the room filled with our anticipation. She played the first three notes gingerly as if reuniting with a friend after a long estrangement. No one sang. We waited.
The retired piano teacher—the virtuosa—delved into the song, forgetting her fingers’ stiffness, her apprehension and even her audience. I listened, hoping that, in this moment, with her fingers moving expertly across the keys with miraculous dexterity, she felt as happy as she had made me feel all evening.
And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a King!
When she touched the final key, we stood and applauded loudly, pleading for her to play another song. All of us except Evan, who had slipped away unnoticed. As I pondered over Evan’s sudden disappearance, I remembered my mother’s admonishment when I was a child. Always show kindness to strangers; by doing so, some have entertained angels unawares. Opal opened her heart to strangers and received an unexpected blessing. She was unaware that Evan had been a special guest. Not that she would have done anything differently.

Art, The Big Yes

August 5, 2014 Leave a comment

Much of our lives involve the word ‘no.’  In school we are mostly told, ‘Don’t do it this way. Do it that way.’ But art is the big yes.  In art, you get a chance to make something where there was nothing.
  – Marvin Bell

 

            In my earliest memories, art was ‘no.’ I became convinced that art did not like me.  Jittery with anticipation during an elementary class art time, I waited as patiently as a eager child could to get started on the self-portraits we would draw that day.  I was wearing my red smock, the one I loved to wear because it meant I was going to be doing something special.  Art, the big yesAll through the previous night, I imagined sitting at my wooden desk–the humble precursor to a real artist’s easel–stroking and dabbing my way to an incredibly lifelike image of myself.  I had no idea whether a ounce of talent lurked within in me nor did I care.

            My teacher, Mrs. P, distributed the crayons to each child, but when she reached my desk, she made a loud announcement.  Since I was so dark, she said, I could not use the flesh-colored crayon. I must use the brown one.  B-r-o-w-n. Not flesh-colored, like all of the other children, who by then had turned to stare at me, a specimen under a microscope.  I learned to dislike art that day. It was not for me, I concluded.  Art was for the children with flesh-colored crayons.

           African Dancer1 By the time I reached high school, however, I wanted art.  Not the drawing kind but the art that involved words, the art that would give me a voice—writing. After earning a high grade on an assignment by the toughest English teacher in the school, I fell in love with the idea of expression through writing. I dreamed then of studying writing  in college and gazed wistfully at the nondescript brick building from which journalists pumped out one of the city’s newspapers.

            But I said ‘no’ to art back then to pursue more practical living.  Instead of celebrating ideas and writing words, I dutifully typed and filed them in an office to make a practical living.  Practicality served me well by paying the bills and affording a few luxuries along the way.

            But art beckons—in museums, on vacant walls, on the street, after waiting and waiting and forgiving all of the times I said ‘no.’ I wonder, doesn’t everyone have some art inside, some creativity that, even if we never make a living at it, deserves at least, in whatever small way, to live?

In the Park

I walked 2.73 miles this morning along a cool, lush path enjoyed by joggers, other walkers and pets out for their morning stroll with their people. No, this does not explain my brief hiatus from blogging but merely serves as a springboard to get my fingers warmed up. I haven’t been idle. In fact, in my defense, I have been overly busy, sometimes overwhelmed with the number of things that need to be done. Therefore, this morning’s walk was a welcomed diversion.
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We need diversions, breaks from our chaotic routines to remind us that there is more to life than doing. A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of strolling around Hyde Park. Amid the congestion of the city, the constant bombardment of noise, being jostled by passersby and whatever that white stuff is that floats around like snowflakes in the London air at this time of year, the parks of the city offer a sanctuary that we often do not realize we need until we walk among the willows or spread a blanket for an impromptu picnic. We need greenery. We need the grass and ponds, flowers and trees for our sanity even if we live in a concrete-dominated environment that spews grey and extracts imagination. We need Central Parks and Hyde Parks and botanical gardens with winding paths and benches for reading and watching, even if we never turn the page or have no particular subject to watch. Isn’t it sublime to feel the long-awaited warm breeze brush against your skin after a long winter and sluggish spring? Who doesn’t smile, even if it’s just a little bit, to see a toddler chase a pigeon with such determination as if he could actually catch it?
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I sat and imagined a scene of finely dressed ladies of the royal court strolling along the pebbly paths, their voluminous gowns swaying past me. They carried parasols and I wondered if I should protect myself from the sun, too, or had it been a mistake not to consider bringing along a hat. But the sun felt so good after consecutive days of rain, then showers, then overcast skies that looked like the gothic backdrop of dark, angry clouds. I was reckless in my enjoyment of the sun’s rays and counted it a blessing to walk freely, without haste, in the green spot in the midst of the busy city.