"Where words fail, Music speaks. " - Hans Christian Anderson
I can’t remember the program we played on that trip to Expo 86.
But I remember the people. I remember them so well. Amazing musicians. Good
friends. A teacher and conductor we
adored. He worked hard, and we gave it our best. Wherever we played on that
trip we were fed, watered, and appreciated. Everything was running like
clockwork. Our last place was Victoria. Home. Then it would be back to California.
Unfortunately,
my mother did not get the memo that stated there were almost 20 of us coming.The
church venue knew . But my mother forgot to get billets. So we stayed at our house. All twenty of us. One living room for
all the boys. No sleeping bags, not enough pillows, two couches, a few
blankets. A
hardwood floor and carpet to sleep on. Girls were spread out on the floors of two small bedrooms. My mother sat up in the huge rocking chair in
the old kitchen. Night after night. She had the door closed, but I could hear the tv’s muffled
sounds. Like she used to when I was
little. She would be watching late night tv I guessed. I liked the familiar
sound.
In
the morning. Twenty people. One bathroom. Two rolls of toilet paper. My mother
went to the store to buy more supplies. After she made breakfast. Bacon, eggs,
fried tomatoes, hot scones she made in the night. She slathered them with
butter and dripping honey. The scones did not last long. There was bubbling hot coffee
and tea . We were happy. My cat purred and sat on people’s feet. We laughed.
Another
night. Another night of my mother sitting up in her chair. I could hear her
rocking. Each night she would tiptoe into the room and talk to me .I can’t even
remember what she talked about. It
was mostly about the fact she bought a million strawberries that had to be
hulled by morning for breakfast. So we hulled strawberries at 2am, the tv tuned
to some old movie. And she talked . And I listened. But I don’t remember what she
said. I just know that I didn’t want to see a strawberry again .
After
a few days, most of our group climbed into
cars and headed back south. A few of us
stayed on. It should have been nice to be home. But my mother was always talking
to me, making me carve up fruit at 2 am.
Each
night she sat up in her chair, even though she could have taken her room again.
But she wouldn’t hear of it. She just rocked in her chair, the tv on and planned on breakfast. I’m not sure if she slept at all that week.Then she started baking cakes in the middle of the night. She’d
haul me out of bed to frost. She’d talk. I would listen. But I never remembered later.
It annoyed me. Her endless talking. Every night if it wasn’t a
cake, then it was fruit. Even though there were only three of us left, she
still put on a spread. Antique white table cloth on the dining room table, the
best china. The last morning she brought forth a chocolate cake, she made from scratch and I
frosted in the middle of the night. Lots of scones, hot and covered with
strawberries or honey.
That
last morning,she asked me to walk with her. So
we did. My cat followed us.We walked away from the others who were waiting at the car. She
talked. I listened. I don’t remember what she said. I last
saw her standing by the old poplars she planted twenty years before. My cat
circling her feet. I felt a sense of relief. When we were back in the states I
called her . She talked . I listened. I can’t remember what she said, except she wished I'd taken some of the strawberries off her hands.
That was the last time I saw her. I still don’t remember what
she said , as the days march away. But I know her generous spirit lives on. Words
aren’t always important. It’s what’s behind the words that we need to remember……..
PHOTOGRAPHS 2022 Part of the EXPO 86 Chamber Orchestra group. Such great people!
