Summer Magic

Last summer, I went back to the old farm that belonged to my father and his father before him.  I had played in orchestras all over the world, and I was tired and hurt.  I was in my sixties and my memories of childhood were more vivid than in younger days.  Behind me was a broken marriage, and my four children scattered throughout the country.

When I arrived at the farm I thought, “This is the only place that is real to me, nothing has changed.”  I wandered out into the pine grove where the pines now stood ten times my height.  The sturdy oak bench was still there beckoning to me.  I felt more peaceful than I had in years.  From long ago, coming through the mists of time, I heard my grandfather’s voice. 

“Come on, boy, what are you waiting for? Bring your fiddle and we will play.”

Only ten years old when my grandfather died, I remembered he was laid to rest by a large maple tree on his beloved farm.  The night after his funeral, unable to sleep, I wandered into the pine grove.  I saw my grandfather there and he spoke to me.  He raised his bow and started playing as I had always seen him do.  How well I remembered his playing.  He could make his violin laugh and cry almost at the same time and I ran indoors to get my own violin.  I joined him in his music and we stood there, playing our violins in the starlit night.  I had been neglecting my lessons and I saw my grandfather frown when I played out of tune with him. 

“You’re like me.  You have music in your blood, in your heart, and in your soul.  We will bring back the gift that is your birthright.”

I only nodded, took up my instrument and tucked it under my chin with my left hand.

All that summer, on fair nights under the old or new moon, we played together.

Our music was so beautiful it could make me shiver and weep, there was fire in my veins, and as the summer months passed, I became better and better.  At summer’s end, I knew music was my life. 

My parents closed up the house, and we returned to the city where they put me into school.  But I never stopped playing my violin again, and in time, I enrolled in the Juilliard School of Music.

Fame didn’t come overnight.  With my grandfather’s face in front of my eyes, I worked hard.  He had called it my birthright and the world of music was mine.  I lived and breathed music.  In time, I played in every major city in the world, and in most of them, I performed many times as a violin soloist.  As my fame grew, so did the demand for my appearances, and there was little time left for anything other than music.  I loved my wife but she couldn’t stand my rigorous schedule and she left me.  Whenever I felt lonely, I remembered my grandfather’s words and they soothed me.

However, the recent war which changed so many lives also changed mine.  During a concert I gave for our fighting men, a freak accident deprived me of the middle and ring fingers of my left hand.  Needless to say, my concert career came to an end.  For many months I grew despondent and despaired.  I knew if I couldn’t play my violin, there was nothing to live for. 

Now home from my travels at last, this beautiful country would restore my spirits and my health.  On my third night, unable to sleep, I walked into the pine grove where I spent a summer playing with my grandfather.  I now owned a Stradivarius, an early dream of mine.  For some reason, I took the now useless violin with me and smiled into the darkness.  Did I expect my grandfather to be there this time? Yes, in my heart I did. 

I closed my eyes and fumbled with the fingers of my right hand on the violin strings.  It sounded dreadful and filled me with sorrow.  I composed myself and struggled with my fingers, hoping they would make a few melodious sounds.  I heard him before I saw him.  I opened my eyes and looked at the tall, white haired man by my side. 

“What’s the matter, boy?” came grandfather’s quiet voice.  “Lost your nerve?”

I held out my left hand in mute reply.

“You have two hands,” grandfather said without a trace of pity and picked up his instrument.  He started playing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. 

“Don’t,” I said.  “Don’t you see how much it hurts me?”I sensed grandfather’s light touch on my left elbow and he lifted my arm with the bow in it.  “That’s cruel, grandfather,” I said.  “You heard me earlier.”

“We have all summer,” grandfather said with the smile I remembered so well.  Then he went on to play Wieniawski’s Concerto Number 2.

 
At my first concert, I froze with fear.  The silent audience expected me to perform magic.  It was the most terrifying moment of my life.  Then I felt a light touch on my left elbow and my old confidence returned.  I secured the violin under my chin with my right hand while my left hand lifted the bow. 

©Amy Thompson. August 2010