Even unpremeditated consideration of life in mid-January in Canada must
inevitably include an allusion to the misery of the weather, the sodden grey
clouds, dirty yellow light and blackened urban snow. I supplemented the trial by visiting my aging
father at his “retirement” institution on Sunday morning. It is of course ridiculous to label the
singular feature of his residence as one of retirement. He is almost 96 years of age and has been
retired for over 30 years. His room
(hardly up to the elevated nomination of a “residence”) is in the Alzheimer
wing of the hospital. It is impossible
to escape the babbling and occasional wails of the surrounding “residents”
(another nicety). The drably clad nurses
and service staff perform their duties with practiced distance from the disheartening
surroundings. It is useless to
glamourize the scene. It’s not a home or
a residence; it’s an asylum, a last stop, a safe haven for the frail and
failing from the methods of the outside world.
Remarkably I am not persuaded by the gloom of the place. In fact I make an effort to look into the
eyes of the people whom I pass in the hallway.
The ones who still have life in their eyes are eager for communication
even if it is nothing more than a silent regard accompanied perhaps by a polite
“Good morning!” They have something to
say, I know; they have a story to tell if only I had a moment to enquire. But I have my own relative to attend upon and
I mustn’t erode the few moments allotted for the weekly visit before my father
falls asleep mid-conversation.
On my way back from collecting a parking pass from the Commissionaire’s
desk - a lengthy walk down exceptionally wide corridors flanked by empty rooms
with chairs and a chapel set up for what might in any other circumstance be a
wedding - I spy a piano in the dining room where some downcast residents have
already set their wheelchairs at small square tables in preparation for the mid-day
meal. I cannot resist a piano, it begs
to be played. I redirect my objective
and march with purpose into the dining room, past the several people waiting at
their tables, tossing a careless Hello!
They can’t imagine what I am about.
As usual the piano (which bears a sticker proclaiming who donated it) is hopelessly out of tune and many of the keys do not function properly. Nonetheless I play on. Even without turning around to examine my audience I can tell they are captive, awakening to the private sentiments which a chord here and a chord there has struck within their weary souls. Music always does that, lifting people from their forlorn thoughts. I know too the congregation is increasing, not just because it is lunch time but because I am the Pied Piper leading them to fields they haven’t contemplated for a long time. Because I have played these ancient pianos in similar circumstances more than once I even have a repertoire with a crescendo. I know the introductory pieces which pull on their heart strings. I know the violence of the last piece which will lay before them the power they no longer have in themselves but which they still can feel in the music.
As usual the piano (which bears a sticker proclaiming who donated it) is hopelessly out of tune and many of the keys do not function properly. Nonetheless I play on. Even without turning around to examine my audience I can tell they are captive, awakening to the private sentiments which a chord here and a chord there has struck within their weary souls. Music always does that, lifting people from their forlorn thoughts. I know too the congregation is increasing, not just because it is lunch time but because I am the Pied Piper leading them to fields they haven’t contemplated for a long time. Because I have played these ancient pianos in similar circumstances more than once I even have a repertoire with a crescendo. I know the introductory pieces which pull on their heart strings. I know the violence of the last piece which will lay before them the power they no longer have in themselves but which they still can feel in the music.
With a flourish I hit the last bass note to punctuate the finale of the
piece and stand up from the bench, nourished by immediate applause from the
people in the room. The performance is
at an end. As I prepare to leave the
room I greet my humble admirers, discovering as so often is the case that more
than one of them once played the piano or taught it. There is always one gentleman sitting alone
who refuses to look at me as I search his face.
He doesn’t want to admit to sentimentality, nothing will improve his
day. It is for him a bleak winter
day.
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