Playing With the Past

Playing With the Past

No, I don’t know how long she has been on the floor, (my granddaughter Linnie was saying to the 911 operator). I just walked in and found her down by the piano. Yes, she is breathing but she is talking nonsense, something about Mozart told me it’s not time for Requiem yet. Yes, please send the ambulance.

…and that is how the cat was let out of the bag. It had been my longest and best kept secret until then. It’s one of those things a person can’t tell another person no matter how much the person thinks they can trust that other person. No, this is the kind of thing that gets a person placed on a mental health hold and medicated, especially at my age but, that’s the thing, I wasn’t my age when I met up with all of the good folks at the musical home.I was only 12, and assigned piano to fulfill an arts credit in middle school.

I didn’t mind taking the course, not that I would have been given a choice anyway. I liked my teacher, Miss Martinelli. She was young and had a fun voice. She wore really mod clothes too!

It also wasn’t so odd for a member of my family to play an instrument, at least in the sibling zone.My 2nd oldest sister played flute and my 2 younger brothers played trumpet and drums, respectively.There was also singing in the church choir and the school choir along with performing in the occasional school play. As for our parents, Mom had a beautiful soprano voice and used it as she sang along to various songs of the day or season. She also loved to fill the house with Mantovani’s album of Strauss waltzes, Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Taxi and Andy Williams, The Days of Wine and Roses, while she cooked or cleaned. Dad, he was content to play Ray Charles, Willie Nelson or the Statler Brothers on the radio.

Even at age 12 I could tell Miss Martinelli was very professional in her teaching methods. A dozen electric keyboards lined up in the classroom. We were assigned a keyboard on day one, each given the same piece of beginner level music and each given the same instruction on how to read music, key signature and timing. She reminded us at each class that doing our homework would help us progress, even if we didn’t have a piano at home (which we didn’t). Once we felt we had mastered the assigned piece, we played it for her and, if indeed it was mastered, a new piece was assigned.

Being a member of a large family herd, I had learned early to mind my own business and do what I was told so, I didn’t know that I was the only one in class who was learning a piece of music a day. I didn’t know that my fellow students weren’t picking up on how to read music and couldn’t imagine the story the music was telling. I figured everyone was getting a note sent home to their parents with compliments about natural ability and having a gift. My parents shared the contents of the note with me but there was no party or any atta girl given. I was one of 7 kids! We all had some talent or ability.

Despite knowing that Miss Martinelli was happy with my progress, I could not have been more shocked to hear my name called at the end of year assembly. It seemed I had won the “Most Accomplished” award, having played every bit of music Miss Martinelli had prepared for the year, which caused her to print off more music to keep me occupied during the last 3 months of school.

Now, if anyone had thought to ask me how I had managed all of that razzle dazzle, my naïve self might have fessed up to the long since passed, ladies and gentlemen who filled my brain the first time I sat down to my assigned keyboard. I could also have explained that those same brilliant composers didn’t wave goodbye as I left class either. On the odd occasion that I was allowed to practice on the church’s baby grand, my long deceased buddies joined in right where we left off back in the classroom. In fact, they came along to my marriage, the birth and growing years of my children and toodled right along through the births and piano lessons of the grandchildren. My world was my world and their world remained within the confines of my time sitting at a keyboard.

Over all of those years I had the honor of watching Chopin mournfully play his Prelude in E Minor, all the while knowing he is dying of tuberculosis. Sometimes I avoided playing that piece because the situation was sad and out of my control.I would much rather sit down and play along with Scott Joplin so we could go at our jubilant syncopation and gyrate our buns off in a place where, if your body could move, no one cared who you were or where you came from.

I had the chance to sympathize with Anna Magdalena Bach as she sat quietly by watching her brilliance being credited largely to her husband. Yes, she was given a few crumbs of recognition but, make no mistake, those Bach men weren’t the only talented composers in that family and trying to erase her from memory after Bach Sr.’s death, well, sorry boys, not gonna happen. I know too much.

Then there was the plain foolishness of Schumann thinking that he could pump up his ring finger strength only to go and ruin it. Yes, they were/are an impressive and colorful group.

As time went by, I would get on with the days necessary activities just so I could get back to my secret loves. My family was very aware of my stage fright and was very patient with me when I needed time to myself each day, just to play.

Days and months and years playing along in a world all my own. I particularly appreciated my time with the magnificent Debussy who taught me restraint via his lovely Clare de Lune and, of course, no one could make so much magic out of the science, of the waxing and waning moon, like Beethoven and his now ubiquitous piece. Those lessons played right off the keyboard and into the workings of my life.

Over the last 50+ years I have gotten to play along with so many savants via our mystifying 88 keyed connection but, if you asked, I might have to admit to some favorites, and not necessarily because of their musical gift. Take for example, the naughty Amadeus, who just had to interject his thoughts as my heart failure took me down during our rendition of Lacrimosa.

Even with our limited, otherworldly connection, it became pretty apparent to them when the lightheadedness started. They might be dead but they aren’t blind. As the previous days passed, they could see my ankles getting puffier while I worked the pedals and, noticed my shortness of breath if I tried to play an energetic run. Amadeus made some snarky remark about a future, in person duet soon but, I ignored him. As these things go, the fluid got ahead of my medicine, I was too busy enjoying my friends’ company to call the doctor then, boom, can’t breathe dizzy and out.

Poor Linnie. I did feel bad that she had to find me but, then again, good thing she stopped by.

The paramedics showed up, did their paramedic duty and carted me off to the hospital. Sure enough, I was found to have the very unlyrically titled, “acute heart failure” but, for now, it would be fixed with some medication adjustments, some salt restriction and some (pre-scheduled so no getting out of them), follow up doctor’s appointments.

As she sat at my bedside, Linnie told me how scared she was when she found me. I tried to reassure her that I didn’t do it on purpose to which she responded, “I know, I know, you were just playing with your friends.”

Wait just one minute! What did she say? Does my sweet Linnie know more that she had previously let on. Yes, we are tight and have been her entire life. One of the greatest joys of my life has been the chance to teach her how to play piano and to admire her ease and skill. She never fussed about the lessons or the practice and, even had the chutzpah to proceed with violin lessons, an instrument she has also mastered. Yes, truly a teacher’s pride and joy especially in her ability to get up and perform in front of an audience. Now THAT she didn’t get from me.

I guess no time like the present, so I asked her, Linnie what are you talking about when you say playing with my friends. Now it was her turn to be quiet. After a few minutes, without looking at me she said, “Grandmom, I have always wanted to tell you but I was worried you would think I was nuts.” She went on to say, “ever since you started teaching me piano, all of those years ago, I feel like I can hear the composers. Not just imagine them playing whatever piece I was working on but they actually speak to me, coach me, give me crap if I am not getting a certain technique or note set to their liking.” She went on, “it wasn’t until you said that Mozart told you it wasn’t time for the Requiem that I thought you might know something.

Something akin to relief washed over me and it had nothing to do with the fact that I had peed out most of the fluid that had been overwhelming my body.

Before I got into the conversation too deeply, I wanted to clarify a little something so I asked Linnie, when you play your violin, do you also commune with the composers? “No, it has only been when I play the piano. I was a little disappointed not to have my mental coaches with me during violin lessons but I seemed to be able to move forward with it on my own.”

Well, isn’t that a kick in the pants! Not only does she share my particular peculiarity but she has singular talent too!

Having divulged our mutual discovery of our own portal, and our long-kept secret we continued on with the telling of the tale, stopping only when the occasional nurse would come in to check on me.

Linnie explained to me her own stories of the men and women who have come before us only she seemed to have spent more time with the likes of Rachmaninov, Grieg and the Gershwin brothers. She had a particularly trying time with Handel, who would get angry at her so quickly she never had time to figure out why. She also found Bizet bizarre but, by the time she was a teenager she had learned that, if she ignored a particular presence, after a while they would go away. In short order, Handel and Bizet became true things of the past. Gratefully, she received the Mendelsohn’s (she loved spending time with Fanny, but she said Felix seemed to understand) and the kindness, with a touch of silliness of Herr Haydn.

I wanted to hear more but I had to admit to Linnie that I was so tired and needed to rest. She said she understood and would leave so I could sleep. As she was gathering her things the nurse came in with the good news that I would be discharged the next day and I fell asleep in a state of euphoria, having survived my near miss AND learning that my beloved Linnie was now part of the never-ending concert.

The next day Linnie arrived to pick me up. She said she spent the evening updating the gang. She said they were sending their best wishes and looked forward to seeing me soon, “Oh, and Amadeus said to tell you that you need to make up time because he can’t bear to hear you play the 2nd and 3rd measures wrong again, in the Sonata”

So, there you have it my friends. As Mr. Sammy Fain once wrote,

At last my heart’s an open door

And my secret love’s no secret anymore.

Laurie Evelyn Zimmerman-Rice