The Concert Hall

It was the first Sunday in October. It was crisp but sunny; a typical fall afternoon in the Midwest. We had moved north to the city a few months ago. My father’s transfer had given my mother the chance to accept a position with a large symphony. 

 My mother had taken a train to the city this morning. My father had parked our car blocks away from the concert hall. As we walked the distance, the wind turned my cheeks as red as apples and tugged at my dress. I walked with my hands pinned to my sides to keep my dress from blowing upwards.

 We entered the building through the giant front doors and my father began fumbling in his coat to find the tickets. 

 “Here, you hold these,” he said, handing me the flower bouquet he’d bought for my mother on the way into the city. 

 He handed our tickets to a man in a fancy suit who tore them and handed part back to my father. 

 An usher met us at the door to the concert hall and showed us to our places. We settled into our seats and waited. Soon, members of the symphony filed onto the stage and found their places amid rows of chairs and music stands. 

 Since my mother was a section leader, she was one of the last to take her place. When I saw her I began to say, “Look!” but quickly lowered my voice when the people sitting in front of us turned and glared at me. 

 “I see her, there’s Mommy!” I whispered. 

 My embarrassed father just nodded his head. 

 The lights went down, a hush fell over the audience, and then the conductor came to the front of the stage. There was a burst of applause before he stepped to the podium and raised his baton.  

The symphony broke into sound. This was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen or heard!

 It seemed that somehow, the music was alive. It wasn’t like the music from the record player – that was just sound. This music was breathing, full of pictures and stories. I was sitting inside of it and the world faded away. I wanted it to go on and on. 

 The music stopped, people applauded, the lights came up and I sat there in a trance with the bouquet in my lap. 

 “Come on, let’s go find your Mother,” said my father nudging my shoulder.

 We stood, waiting for a break in the crowd.

 I looked around at the faces, trying to tell if anyone else had heard what I’d heard or felt what I felt, but they all smiled and chattered away, seemingly oblivious to the miracle.

 When it was our turn, we walked down the aisle towards the stage and went through a door that led to the backstage area. We found the room that was full of the orchestra members and I spotted my mother right away. I ran to her, handed her the bouquet, and threw my arms around her waist.

 “Oooph. Thank you!” my mother chuckled. “Here, let’s take a peek at these,” she said, wriggling away from me. She pulled back the paper from the bouquet and said, “Oh, they’re beautiful!”

 “So are you Mommy!” I exclaimed. 

 Blushing a little she said, “Thank you, sweetie! Now I need to put my things away so we can go home.” 

 “Can I help, please?” I asked.

 “Well,” she said, considering the question. “Here, why don’t you hold the flowers.”

I took them and together we walked over to where her instrument sat in its open case. 

 As we moved through the room, I breathed in the warm smells of rosin and old wood.

 “It smells really pretty in here” I declared.

 She grinned broadly and said, “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it!” 

 I watched as she loosened the bow, gently folded a piece of silky cloth over her instrument and closed the case. We slowly made our way to the door where my father had been waiting. All along the way, we stopped to say a few words to the other players. Each time, she would proudly say, “and this is my daughter” which was my cue to smile and curtsey.

 A little way from my father I tugged on my mother’s sleeve to make her stop.

 “What is it?” she asked.

 “Mommy, when I grow up I want to play music. I want to be just like you, and be in a symphony.” 

 She looked like she was going to cry and said softly “Oh honey…”

 Thus began a routine.

 On the first Sunday of every month, we would go to the symphony matinee. 

 Before long, my father decided he didn’t want to go anymore so I was allowed to ride the train with my mother and sit quietly by myself during the concert. We would talk and giggle on the train ride into the city. I would watch in wonder as the players tuned and warmed up backstage. Then, I would sit in silent awe of the music. 

 The train ride home was always silent, with my mother sneaking looks at me and nodding to herself.

 When I got home I would run to my room, grab my violin and practice until bedtime. 

 Months turned to years that saw me going not just to those Sunday afternoon concerts, but also rehearsals and just about every one of my mother’s performances. All the while I studied and practiced, then practiced some more. 

 In Junior High, I played in an honors youth orchestra. By the middle of high school, I was sharing a stand with my mother in a semi-professional orchestra. After high school, I went to a music school that she’d recommended. A few summers later I was offered a position with a touring orchestra bound for Europe. My mother was both giddy and a little jealous at the same time.

She’d never played in Europe. At the airport, she fought back tears as she said, “Play pretty for me.”

One morning, about halfway through the tour, there was a knock on my hotel room door. I donned my robe and followed a hotel employee downstairs to the hotel manager's office.

There was a phone call for me. A stranger’s voice on the other end of the line informed me that my parents had died in an accident. It had taken a couple of days of calling to find me. 

All of the arrangements had been taken care of according to their wishes and thus, no memorial service would be held unless I wanted one. I stood dazed and shocked in the manager’s office for a few minutes until the manager himself led me back to my room.

 I moved through the next few days on “auto-pilot.”  I thought of going home but I heard my mother saying “I’ve never played in Europe” and knew that I needed to stay.

 I finished the tour and finished school. For the next few years, I played with a succession of smaller orchestras. Then one day I saw an ad for a symphony opening that was too good to believe. 

 I sent in my tape and resumé, was called for a live audition, and was delighted when the contract arrived in the mail.

 I packed up my few possessions and moved.

 Today is the first Sunday of October. The morning air is crisp and smells of autumn. I gather my music and case and walk to the train station. 

 After a short ride, I’m in the heart of the city. The cool wind feels good on my face. 

 The front doors of the building are just as gigantic as I remember them. Inside, the same carpeted hush welcomes me. I walk past the ticket counter, un-manned at this hour. An usher hurries by. Hmmm, the uniforms have changed.

 I open one of the heavy doors to the concert hall and slip in. I stand by the door for a bit, looking around. The carpet is new and the seating has been upgraded. It looks much nicer than what I remember. I walk noiselessly down the side aisle and back to the warm-up room. 

 I’m one of the first players to arrive but by the time I’ve unpacked and warmed up, the room is full. I take a deep breath and savor that now familiar aroma of rosin and wood. 

 When we are all assembled, the conductor gives us some final comments and we proceed to the stage. 

 When the applause for his entrance has died down, he raises his baton and I whisper

 “This is for you, mommy.’