THE ORCHESTRA TRIP

"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!