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

The Penny and The Moon

On a cloudless night a Penny lay on the windowsill of a young boy's bedroom. The boy was sleeping, dreaming of the warm shawl he would buy for his mother when he had gathered enough pennies.

"A penny saved is a penny earned," his father always said and his father was always right. It would require too many pennies to buy his mother a winter coat. The shawl would keep her comfortable through the long winter to come, and she would be proud to wear it. It was a clear night, and the penny looked at the silvery beams of the full moon which was smiling down at it. The Moon was round like the Penny but far more beautiful.

"How I wish I could be grand and silvery like the Moon", the Penny said. "Then all the world would admire me!”

The Penny looked around at the small room in which it was. The thin, sleeping boy, the worn green carpet, an old mended cap thrown next to thread-bare shoes. It spoke to the Moon.

"How I wish I could be like you.”

All of a sudden he heard a voice that seemed to come like a soft murmur from all around him. Startled, the penny looked around and saw nobody but the sleeping boy.

"I am an old Moon. Therefore I am also wise and know everything there is to know."

"How can that be? You are beautiful, I know. But you are so far away, to be admired for your luster and your gentle light. Knowledge, however, comes from close observation.”

“If I can see everything, I can know everything," the smug Moon said, and prepared to close the subject as a cloud came drifting by.

"No, Moon, listen to me. There is much to know of things you cannot see..."

The Penny was upset. True, it was faded and dull from use and handling by rich and poor alike. It envied the Moon its beauty and the self-assurance the Moon displayed but it could not agree the Moon knew everything.

"Have you ever been inside a poor man's pocket? Have you ever been tossed into the gutter? I can see the stars from the gutter, better than you can because you are too close to them. Have you heard the clinging and the clanging of a cash register?”

"Of course not. Why would I be interested in things like that?"

"Have you ever seen the extravagant inside of a rich man's house? Or heard the rich man's pretty young wife demand more diamonds? Have you been inside the gray shacks of the poor where cold and famine rule supreme? Have you seen young lovers with shining eyes? Lovers have no time for you, Moon, they only look at each other, and their love transcends all other things. Love is a wondrous emotion, and I have known it. How much you have missed, Moon!"

The Moon grew thoughtful and did not answer. Isolated in its beauty, it knew nothing of these things. It did not understand why such trivia should be of any significance. Was the Moon not admired by all? Musicians and poets had written about it's light, and many people believed the Moon had mystical powers. At last, the Moon thought of a reply.

"I give pleasure and that should be enough. Is pleasure not what all people seek?"

The Penny was aghast.

"My dear Moon, pleasure is not an end in itself! How is it you think that pleasure is enough for a mother who cannot feed her child? For a husband who has no money to buy medicine for his ailing wife? For a young man and a young girl who love each other but are kept apart because the young man has no money? While rich men eat more than is good for them, poor men - with their hungry bellies - look for work to earn pennies like me to feed their families. I think I must be quite important because people have need of me, even though I may be plain and small. Oh, Moon, I wish your beams were made of real silver and could spread warmth to those who are cold. Why are you not more like the Sun? The Sun gives light and warmth and makes all things grow."

At the mention of the Sun, the Moon became jealous.

"The Sun is foolish. It withers nature and opens plants too soon. It has no patience such as mine. It makes people lazy and self-indulgent by warming them too much. Only when I come, are people relaxed and happy. Do not speak to me of the silly Sun."

The Penny was sad. How could he make the Moon understand the earth needed them both, Sun and Moon?

"There is a time for joy and work. But there is also a time for contemplation and rest. Moon, the balance of the universe is important to every living thing. I have traveled far and wide. I was there when men wept because of injustice. I was there when avarice controlled their souls. And I was there when kindness and generosity flourished. Have you seen the sacrifice when a young child gave his last piece of bread to a beggar who was faint from hunger? With my friends, I could wipe away the tears of children who suffered from need. I was there when a boy in love bought a bunch of violets for his beloved when she was to marry another the same day and I still feel his tears on me. No, Moon, what you have seen of life is little. Even though you are beautiful, you know nothing of life, and therefore you know nothing at all. I am sorry for you."

Daylight was breaking. After such a trivial conversation, the Moon wrapped itself into a white cloud and prepared to withdraw.

***

The boy was stirring in his bed. And the Penny? The little Penny was weeping. The windowsill became quite wet with its tears. It had been an admirer of the Moon but knew now the moon was distant and cold and uncaring. The disillusionment was hard to bear.

A ray of sunshine entered the small room. It looked at the Penny, and it knew what had taken place because it was never far away, even during the night. It kissed the Penny's tears until each one shone like a precious stone. There were sapphires, emeralds, and pure white diamonds on the windowsill now. The little Penny stopped weeping when it felt the warmth of the sun. Amazed, it looked around at the diamonds. From where had they come?

"They came from your heart, little Penny," the sun-ray said. "You may be plain and worn but you have a heart of gold."

"Can that be true?" the Penny said in delight, "Then I am not as insignificant as I had thought!"

***

The boy awoke and saw the brilliant colors on the windowsill. He called for his mother who had been waiting with his porridge.

When she came up, the boy gathered the diamonds and gave them to her.

"Is it colored glass? How lovely it is!" the mother said to her only child.

"Mother, I will take them to the jeweler around the corner." The boy had trouble breathing from the excitement. "They are jewels, I just know."

"Jewels...That would be grand indeed. We would eat chicken tonight... with peas and carrots."

“They are for you, Mother. But I will take them to the jeweler."

The jewels were more magnificent than the old jeweler had ever seen, and he gave the boy a sack full of shiny new pennies for just one of them.

That night, the boy and his mother had a delicious roasted chicken on the table. There were also dishes of peas, carrots, and potatoes. Father, who was bent from arthritis from working long and heavy hours in the sawmill, came to the table. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a fire in the hearth, and a bunch of violets graced the table. The mother loved violets because they smelled so sweet. But she was smiling because of the excitement and joy she sensed in her dear little family.

"Who could ask for more?" she said, content and basking in the warmth of her loved ones. How excited they were!

The mother was happy for the first time since her son had been born.

After the wonderful supper, the family sat by the fireplace, where the father could relax and smoke his pipe. As so often happened, the mother told a story, and then she asked her son to go to bed because it was becoming late. In his room, the boy spotted the Penny on the window sill.

“You poor, tarnished thing. I have so many shiny new pennies now I have no need of you.”

He took the Penny and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

© 2009 Amy Thompson

THE LITTLE MUSHROOM

A childhood memory

 

In a small, northern European country called Estonia, there once was a mossy, shaded little hill. On this hill there lived a family of mushrooms. It was a big and happy family. The father was tall and strong. The mother was smaller and gentle and smiled often at her five offspring. They were all of different sizes and had special characteristics - each was different from the other. The parents loved them all for their individuality. The parents encouraged independent thinking.

The mushroom family had many friends - the bushes around, the visiting sparrows and even two doves.  In fact, birds of many kinds stopped by to chat.  The butterflies were a little silly, fluttering about, gossiping and never saying anything of consequence.

A small white rabbit hopped by now and then, just to see all was well with his friends. Above all, they enjoyed visits from a cute little blond girl in pigtails. She came to talk every day, running in her bare feet down the path.

Sometimes she had lilies - of the - valley in her hand. She liked to call them Maybells because they grew in the month of May and were indeed shaped like little bells. The little girl was never reluctant to talk and tell the family what was going on in the world. Sometimes she sang or recited a poem.

"Such a friendly child," her father said.

"Yes," the mother said, "but she seems lonely."

"How can she be lonely when she has a family?" one of the daughters said. "Nobody with a family such as ours need ever be lonely or lack for company."

"She is a human being and humans often have feelings we don't understand because we don't have the same problems," the mother said.

She liked her children to ask questions because that would develop their minds.

One son shook off a raindrop with impatience.

"When I grow up. No child of mine shall ever be lonely or sad."

"And when I grow up, I shall become an important politician so all people will admire and love me," the eldest son said.

The parents smiled at their handsome son.

"Being a politician will not always bring you either love or admiration," the father said in a grave voice. “It is the kind of politician you are that matters."

"Well, I shall be a good one! Nobody can criticize me then."

The father sighed. Did young minds only see black and white? How can a father explain all the gray shades that lie in between? And how could a father explain to his young son what was good for some was just the opposite for others?

He must have been muttering out loud because there was an answer from his pretty wife.

"You might try asking questions," his wife said.

"While you are debating the issue I want to say I shall grow up to be a famous actress of the stage," one of the daughters said. "I know I have a natural flair."

Coming from that child, it was a surprising statement because she was so shy and not as pretty as her sisters. To her parents she was comely enough but to be an actress on the stage... it seemed an impossible dream for that youngster.

Still, neither parent believed in discouraging their children.

"When I grow up, I want to travel far and see everything in the world."

These words came from their youngest daughter, the "baby", and were the most surprising of all. The child didn’t often express an opinion.

"Why do you want to leave your family?" One of the elder sisters asked. "We love you and you’re safe with us. The world has many dangers for a young mushroom like you, and we will not be around in a circle to protect you if you go away from us."

"The birds see everything," the youngster said. "Even the foolish butterflies can roam around at will. A swallow told me he goes to a warm climate where the sun always shines and there is no rain at all. He told me of Paris in the spring, and of the young lovers who line the river Seine; he told me of elegant restaurants..."

Just then, the little blond girl came running for her daily visit. She was flushed and her pigtails seemed untidy.

"Oh, my mushroom family, I must talk to you!"

Her voice was high and nervous.

"Calm down, child," the mushroom mother said. "Sit down and tell us what is troubling you."

“My governess is Russian…”

The girl was out of breath.

"Do you speak Russian?" One of the mushroom children asked.

"Of course I do! But that is not what I came to tell you. My governess - Tjotja Tamara Nicolaiovna- brings me wonderful books from her collection. The illustrations are painted by hand.”

"What's a Tjotja?" One of the children asked.

"Tjotja means aunt in Russian. I call her that. But listen now..."

"What have you to tell us that is of such importance?" the father asked, bemused.

"Please listen to me," the girl said. "I just read a story which told me people eat MUSHROOMS!"

"Eat us?" the mushroom family said in unison.

"Yes, and they make sauces and gravies and soups from you and they say you are delicious and smack their lips.”

"Oh, this is terrible! What can we do to save ourselves?" the mother asked and looked at her handsome children. "Little girl, you must find a way to protect us! My family is so dear to me...help us, please."

The girl, now breathing in a more normal way, was twirling a ringlet of hair around a finger.

"My governess told me there is a way... She knows many things because she is Russian and smart. Your family must gather into a tight ring because that’s magic. It will hide you as well. Do it now!" The worried mushroom family did as it was told. Only the "baby" was reluctant to join the ring.

"What of my travels around the world?" I cannot stay in the ring if I am to see the wondrous things the birds have told me about."

"Well..."

The golden-haired girl said.

“Maybe you are too small to be made into a sauce, anyway, so it may be safe for you to stay outside the circle for now. But I will find out more if I can, and I will come back tomorrow to see you are all safe."

She ran back to the big house in which she lived because her parents were preparing to have a large weekend party. All the guestrooms would be filled and there would be singing and reciting and much talk. She hoped her Uncle Trelin would come; he liked children and could spend hours playing with them. He could always think of an exciting game.

Of course, there would be much food despite the terrible war. Somehow, her mother always managed to have an elegant table. Oh, if the Nazis found out about that... they would all be done for!

The party went on as scheduled - there was much merriment, even dancing. The best jokes were about the Nazis who were occupying the country. They always caused the most laughter.

Even Tjotja Tamara seemed to be in a good mood; sometimes she could be melancholy, thinking back to her life in Russia. Russia must have been a wonderful country under the czars and Tjotja Tamara had taught the girl songs and stories of the old Russia.

In fact, the girl harbored a secret love for Czar Peter the Great who seemed to have been a man of vision and imagination in his youth. She had learned by heart many poems by Alexander Pushkin, one of them immortalizing Czar Peter and had seen an engraving of him, with his hair flowing. He was her first love, even though he had died many years ago.

The tables were laden with food. The girl's mother traded her French linen tablecloths so her family could eat during the war which was going on in the whole world. She told her daughter the farmers needed linen to make shirts.

Her husband, with the help of neighbors, had turned his beautiful flower gardens into vegetable patches and there was no shortage of fresh vegetables in the summer.

For the winter, vegetables were stored in the cellar or canned, pickled, and marinated by local women who were good at this kind of thing.

Everybody in the neighborhood benefited from these enterprises.

As the house was near to the sea, one could see the coast of Finland on a clear day. There was also a great deal of fish. A fisherman, who lived in an apartment in the back of the house, provided many different kinds of fish from the sea. On the eve of the party, the girl was not hungry. When she was asked to sing a song, she was so distracted she sang the Communist anthem! Everyone laughed, of course. Nobody liked Communists or Nazis in Estonia. Estonia wanted to be free.

In time, she grew sleepy, and her mother let her go to bed provided she ate some anchovies and milk, at least. She had a curious habit of mashing her anchovies into the milk. But her father laughed and said it all got mixed up in her stomach anyway. The child didn’t sleep well, and as soon as it was light, she dressed and ran off to see her mushroom family.

The family was not there, only the littlest mushroom stood alone, weeping. The girl was horrified. She tried to ask the tiny mushroom what had happened, where was the family? The little mushroom was too distraught to make sense.

Running back to the house in tears, the girl found her Grandmother, her mother, and Tjotja Tamara in the kitchen.

"Mushroom thief ... we have had a mushroom thief", she was choking on her words. "The thief took my mushroom family, all but the baby."

She sank down on the floor in grief only children can know.

"They're gone... forever."

Her grandmother, for once, had no answer. She left the room, knowing there had been a delicious mushroom sauce for the party the night before. Her mother was bewildered - how does one comfort a hysterical child? She tried to explain there were other mushroom families to be looked at and admired but her daughter paid her no mind. The broken heart of a child cannot be mended with such ease.

Only Tjotja Tamara remained silent. She waited until the hysteria of her little charge changed into mere helpless sobs. She waited until the child was ready to talk. When all was quiet, she took the girl by the hand and smiled.

"Come to the library with me," she said and nodded toward the pile of books she had brought from her home.

As a rule, she made the excited girl wash her hands before allowing her to read the treasured, hand painted books which came from her home in Russia. Such delays caused much frustration, but her pupil learned to respect books for the rest of her life. On this occasion, she seemed to forget about hand washing.

"Come, I want to show you something special," she said and aroused some curiosity in the girl who loved books.

"Special? Is it about mushrooms?"

"Only in a way," Tjotja Tamara said before opening a large book with paintings.

She opened the book. After flipping a few pages, she stopped.

"I want to show you something”

The little girl looked. Curiosity overshadowed her sorrow for the moment.

"That's a painting of a white rabbit", she said non-plussed. "There are no such white rabbits here. Why are you showing me this, Tjotja Tamara?"

Tamara smiled.

"Don't you know the white rabbit protects mushrooms? For all we know, it might be out there right now."

Tjotja Tamara asked the little girl if she wanted to go and try to find the white rabbit. The child declined. It was too late to believe in Tjotja Tamara's fairytales and stories of magic. Tamara knew what was going on in her pupil's mind.

"Don't you even want to say goodnight to the little mushroom? Maybe it's all alone."

"Well, yes, I suppose we should", the child said with reluctance. "It's getting dark and maybe the little mushroom is all alone and frightened."

So Tamara went out with the girl. It was a pleasant evening, warm for September, and the path was filled with colorful leaves. The girl was wondering what she would say to the lonely mushroom. What comfort could she offer now?

She was deep in thought as they neared the mossy, green hill. Tamara remained silent, too. She knew when words were useless and a special silence was necessary.

As they neared the hill, the little girl said:

"Tjotja Tamara, we won't see a white rabbit here."

"Maybe not. I told you how shy they are. But remember anything is possible."

She fell into silence. They had reached the hill and the girl went to see the little mushroom with a heavy heart.

All of a sudden, she sensed, rather than saw, a slight pink glow from the spot where the mushrooms had been. It almost looked like a dim flashlight.

"It must come from the moon", she thought. Nobody was allowed to use electrical lights during the war.

She came to her favorite spot and kneeled. She rubbed her tired eyes. Then she rubbed them again, because what she saw had to be her imagination. There it was, her red capped mushroom family! It was a dream, such things didn't happen.

But they WERE there! They were chattering and arguing as always, too preoccupied to see their friend. "It can't be true," the child breathed to herself. Tamara heard her.

"It's true." she told her exhausted charge. "If you believe in miracles, they often come true."

"But I didn’t believe I would ever see my mushrooms again."

"Your heart is pure, little one. In a corner of that heart you have believed in a miracle all along."

"But what of the white rabbit, Tjotja? I haven't seen him."

"He may show himself to you one day if you need him", Tamara Nicolaievna said with a smile.

As the years passed, the girl grew to be a woman. Because her family was forced to flee from Estonia to Sweden in a small boat in order to escape Communists, she never saw her mushroom family again. Then she was taken to a strange country named Canada where she put down her roots.

She never forgot her little mushrooms. They were imbedded in her heart. And she never stopped believing in miracles. After she grew up to be a woman, she felt she had to write a story about them, and that story was read by new generations. The magic of the little girl she had once been never left her.

© Amy Thompson 1999

Concert in the Attic

After my family fled from their native country, Estonia, via Sweden, to escape communist domination, I soon made friends in Canada, where we settled. In the 1950’s Canada and the U.S. were flooded by refugees from European countries and we all had a difficult time at first. I missed the friends I had left behind in Sweden.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad. And there were highlights. I had two great loves, reading and music. While I was an avid reader, I was a lightweight on the piano. I admired anyone who could play a musical instrument well.

Dating sometimes occupied my time. I was an attractive girl then, but I was choosy and had high standards.

Since I didn’t enjoy the company of young men, most of my dates were “older”. There was Oskar, a Czech composer and pianist. We spent just one evening together. He too was a refugee, but unlike my family, his had managed to retain much of their fortune. They lived in a large house in Forest Hill, one of the more expensive areas of Toronto. Oskar was a professor of music at the University of Toronto.

One time he told me “if you come to my house, I will play the piano for you, which I know you like.”

I took Oskar up on his offer. He kept his word, and I had a lovely evening - until the end. I had to slap him then, because he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I never went out with Oskar again, and later he married another pianist. The marriage failed, I read in the newspapers, as Oskar became more and more famous in Canada.

Another time, I was asked out for supper by Paul, who also played the piano and gave recitals. Paul was in his late twenties and studied engineering in the hopes of being able to support himself and his widowed mother. He invited me to their flat, where he would play the piano for me. I accepted, of course, anticipating the type of evening I enjoyed.

Paul’s mother was a tall, elegant woman, and she brought us tea and sandwiches on a tray.

“Why don’t you take the tray to Paul’s room, where there’s an upright piano,” she said.

Their flat consisted of two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom, on the top floor of a nice house. It was located in an area populated by European immigrants and refugees. Most of these refugees were good workers and were working hard in order to afford down payments on houses of their own.

On this evening, I was to be treated to a private concert. Paul began by playing some Swedish music, familiar to us both.

“Paul, please play some melodies from my favorite Viennese Operettas, by composers such as Franz Lehar, Emmerich Kalman, Johann Strauss, and Karl Seller, among others?”

As Paul’s fingers danced over the keys, I sang along in German, which I spoke quite well. To me, it was exciting and wonderful. Now and then, Paul’s mother would stick in her head to see if we needed anything and to smile at my absorption with the music.

“Could you please play some classical music now?” I asked.

He played Mendelssohn, Beethoven, Dborak, and Tchaikovsky. I urged him on, suggesting Chopin, Grieg, Liszt, Rachmaninov, and many others. It was a warm summer evening, and the music that filled the room floated out the open windows. I heard voices outside, and assumed they came from the usual passers by.

Then Paul played the difficult “Fantasy Impromptu” by Frederic Chopin. His hands flew up and down the keyboard. In the hush of the aftermath, from outside there came a sudden clapping and cheering. I rushed to the window, and saw a crowd had gathered on the street below.

I motioned for Paul to come to the window to take a bow, which he did despite his reluctance. The people on the sidewalk applauded, and called up requests.

“I’m from Poland,” one man said. “Play the Chopin Polonaise”.

As Paul played the passionate Polonaise, the crowd grew larger and larger.

“Now play Lizt’s Hungarian Rhapsody Number 2,” a woman called, and Paul obliged.

The throng in the street was wild with excitement, as Paul played request after request. They were refugees like us, and they longed for the music of their homelands. The evening was no longer mine alone.

Various languages could be heard, and Paul and I spoke some of them. A heavy-set man asked for some Russian folk songs, and Paul played Stenka Rasin, Kalinka and Ochi Chernye. The man and I sang along in Russian, which I had spoken since childhood having been taught by a Russian governess. As I stood by the window, I watched many pull out handkerchiefs to wipe away tears of emotion.

“Play some Viennese songs,” a woman said in German.

Paul played simple songs, such as “Vienna, City of my Dreams”, “You Will Remember Vienna,” and melodies by Johann Strauss. For him, these melodies were easy, and his fingers seemed playful on the piano keys. But down in the street, people wept. The air seemed charged with electricity. What had begun as a private event became a shared celebration, one that I would never forget.

The evening with Paul was a lustrous pearl added to my string of memories. In later years, I have often taken it out, evoking thoughts of a magical summer night and a special concert in an attic.

© Amy Thompson. 2010.

Remembering Charlie

When my husband and I found our dream place, I was only 27. We had dreamed of a place in the country, where we could go and rest from our busy, active work and life in the large city of Toronto. We had been looking for such a place for some time, and a colleague of my husband’s told us of a man who was in financial trouble, and might part with his property at a reasonable price.

We had looked at many places, but until then we had found nothing we wanted to buy. Both of us had definite ideas about what we wanted in the country. We were looking for an isolated place, which had green fields, hills, streams, and many, many trees.

When we visited the recommended property, we knew we had found the place we had looked for. On the Northern side, the property bordered a government forest called “Ganaraska”, which was 25000 acres large. On the West side, lived a quiet neighbor with his wife, and their place was just as beautiful. The Southern part had a quiet country road and the Western part had a similar road which led into the forest of Ganaraska.

This road was named “The Thompson Road” after a while. Our land had four gushing streams, which sprang from artesian sources, several fields, thousands of trees, wild life, and rolling hills. It was ideal. There was also a raised plateau where a Bungalow could be built. We knew an Italian builder, who promised to build us the house we wanted.

This was done in a short time by his wine-drinking Italian crew. Even though our Bungalow was winterized, the building had many flaws. The basement leaked, and the ill-fitting windows let in cold air. Local workers fixed and repaired what they could, and the rest we had to put up with. Our property, which was 100 acres large, was so beautiful we thought it was a piece of heaven on earth.

We also built a cottage for my parents there, which contained a large living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom. There was a spacious veranda in front of their cottage where my father liked to sit in the summer evenings. My father later built a sort of a shack, by his cottage, where he kept his tools and equipment for work on the farm.

We never gave our property a name, and always called it just “The Farm”. On our land by the Thompson Road, there was a house where lived an old man, who had lived in that house all his life. This house was quite comfortable. It contained a small living room, a large kitchen, 2 spacious bedrooms and a bathroom. We let the old man, Dick, live there until his death.

It soon became evident we needed to hire help to maintain the place. My parents, who were healthy and strong, loved working on the farm, but between the two of them they could not do everything that was needed. They had once owned such a place in Estonia, and they loved the country with its surrounding forests.

My mother started a vegetable garden, where every vegetable and herb known to man seemed to be growing. She weeded it every morning, and all of us loved to go to the vegetable garden to pick fresh lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, sweet peas, broccoli, potatoes, carrots, fresh green onions, chives, and so on. My father also had certain dreams and ideas he tried to implement.

Every morning, after my mother had finished weeding the vegetable garden, my parents set out with some tools to clean the streams, and clear out a pine grove, which later became a place where we could entertain friends at the barbeque and around a fire. My father, who was more interested in growing flowers than in vegetables, planted many flowerbeds and created rock gardens.

Every summer we hired young men from either high school or college to help us on the farm. There was plenty of room for everything, and we took advantage of the space we now had. At first, the property was quite primitive, which was part of its charm. There were some heavy tasks my father thought necessary, but could not do alone. My father wanted to have a large hole dug where we could burn the garbage.

Also, there were many fallen trees which had to be cut down and chopped for firewood. Our Bungalow had two fire places, and we looked forward to cheerful fires in the winter. My husband and I were still working in Toronto, and could not be of much help. My parents liked to spend all summer on what they called the farm, while my husband and I drove back and forth from the city.

I can not remember now the exact time when Charlie entered our lives. A neighboring farmer’s wife told us about a man who was living in a run-down shack, which did not shelter him from cold or rain or wind or snow in the winter. A farmer, who used the shack as a sort of barn for his tractor, let Charlie sleep there.

Helen told us Charlie did odd jobs around the area, such as cleaning out pigsties and horse barns. Helen, the farmer’s wife had her finger on the pulse of the area and knew everything that was going on. My husband decided to go and see Charlie. He found Charlie in his humble lodgings. He felt so sorry for Charlie he took him along and introduced him to me.

My husband proposed we let Charlie stay in old Dick’s now empty house. I realized Charlie was retarded as soon as I heard him speak, but I was agreeable to my husband’s idea, and Charlie moved into the empty house.

Charlie was unable to tell us his exact age. I was startled when I first met him. His clothes were dirty and rumpled, and he spoke very little because he had a speech defect. This speech defect made communication difficult, if not almost impossible. To me, he looked strange, but Charlie was not an ugly man. His features were regular, he was shaven, and he had a full head of hair.

“Charlie needs a place to stay,” said my husband. “Maybe he can even do some odd jobs around here.”

                             

Charlie was installed with his meager belongings, which consisted of his clothing and an old, worn blanket. From what we could understand and hear from others, life had been cruel for Charlie until then. As an adult, he had never had a home, and slept wherever someone let him stay for a couple of days.

A few days later, Charlie showed up at my father’s cottage and asked if he could work for him. He seemed to assume the property belonged to my father. My father and my husband decided to try him out. We asked Charlie how we could pay him because we knew he was illiterate. Charlie said he wanted 1 dollar, but we paid him a regular wage.

Later, my husband also arranged for an old age pension for Charlie, to which Charlie was entitled. Soon, he became my father’s helper. He regarded my father as his boss, although he never called my father by name. To Charlie, my father was always HE or HIM. Charlie was muscular and strong.

My husband and I are easy-going people, and we were glad we could give Charlie an opportunity for a better life. My husband and I have always tried to help people less fortunate than we were, and this was one of these cases.

Within a year, Charlie had made himself indispensable. He reported for work every morning at my parent’s cottage, looking for my father. Often, he would ask “where is He?” in an almost insulted tone. Charlie seemed to think my father should be waiting for him, ready to go to work.

My father had so many plans for the property, and the two of them would set out content to work on that day’s project. Among his many ambitious plans, was the making of roads throughout the property, which would be lined by all kinds of trees, some of them pines, birches, maples, and many other varieties.

Often, my father would remark one could do so much on the place with a bulldozer.

My husband’s dream was to make a lake on the farm. At first a pond was dug, and I found it nice to swim in. We planted sticks of willow trees around the pond and they grew fast, so the pond became a scenic spot. My father built a wharf on the pond where we could sun ourselves. It was charming, but my husband was still not satisfied. He dreamed of a large private lake, and after a few years, he hired people to make one.

For many weeks we lived with the noise of bulldozers, which were creating an enormous whole in the landscape. My father now took full advantage of the situation. He talked to the men who operated the bulldozers, and persuaded them to make roads throughout the property. By now, my husband and my father knew the land so well they knew just where they wanted the roads to be.

Together with my husband, my father marked the trees where he thought the most beautiful roads could be made. Charlie was told to stay away from the bulldozers because we were afraid he might get hurt. But Charlie had not lived this long without having acquired some survival skills. He insisted on helping whenever he could.

On the whole, we let Charlie do what he wanted, but we did worry when he and my father used the chainsaw or when the bulldozers were around. After a short time, an enormous three acre lake was created, and it was so beautiful it was breath-taking. We bought a lovely canoe and also a small sailboat, and my husband and I would spend private moments on the lake on sunny days.

Charlie was often bewildered by the things we did. He could not swim, but sometimes we saw him looking wistful by the lake, seeming to be in contemplation. There was an abundance of trees around the lake, which reflected their glory in the water. However, there were a few empty spots, and Charlie took it upon himself to plant some trees. The problem was the firs he planted were all the same size and they grew up to stand like sentinels in a row.

The bulldozers had made excellent roads throughout the property, and there was also a road around the lake. One could either walk or drive on these roads, and we did so often at different times of day.

My family tried to make Charlie’s house comfortable. My husband and I installed both electricity and plumbing in the house. We liked to attend local auctions where many good things could be found without having to pay too much. We provided Charlie with an excellent bed, blankets, sheets, pillows, and chairs and tables. My mother even put curtains on all the windows. Kitchen cabinets already existed, but we got Charlie a refrigerator and an electric stove.

Charlie got it into his head the refrigerator gave out cold air, and used to cover it with blankets in order to keep the cold air inside the fridge. We were unable to convince him otherwise. We worried a little about the electric stove, and we were afraid Charlie might leave it on and set the house on fire. Therefore, we tried to check on Charlie on a regular basis.

Charlie also wanted to keep chickens in his house, but we told him it couldn’t be done. He was disappointed and never understood why chickens were forbidden. We did not think Charlie had an eye for beauty, and were surprised when we found Charlie had planted a lilac tree by his house. He had carried it all the way from the Northern part of the property, and seemed proud of his tree.

Next to Charlie’s small house, was a large barn which was not used much in those days, and contained odds and ends. Sometimes Charlie liked to eat his simple sandwich in the barn. Charlie did not know how to maintain his house, and all the things we procured for him soon became soiled and damaged.

Sometimes my mother or a kind neighboring woman would clean Charlie’s house, but Charlie did not seem to notice. Charlie changed his clothes twice a year, once in the spring and once in the late autumn. We offered to wash Charlie’s clothes in our washing machine, but Charlie would not hear of it. He preferred to live as he always had done and was set in his ways.

Charlie was able to prepare simple meals for himself, and we also gave him a lot of food was easy to cook or heat up.

One time Charlie decided to plant cabbages inside the chicken wire fence, which surrounded my mother’s vegetable garden. He watered them with the same love he used to water his lilac tree, which had now been joined by a fragrant mock orange bush.

After 18 years of marriage, a daughter was born to us. She became the center of attention in our family. We named her Katherine Anne, but it seemed like such a big name for a little baby, that we started calling her Anya, the Russian diminutive for Anne.

Anya was brought up on our farm part of the time, and spent a lot of time there before she had to enter kindergarten. After she had to go to school, I spent more time in our Toronto house, but weekends and summers were always spent on the farm. Charlie seemed to be fascinated by the baby, who soon grew into a little girl. He would approach her with his crooked grin, but Anya avoided him.

“He talks funny, mommy,” she said to me once. “I can’t understand him.”

I tried to explain that Charlie had trouble speaking, but he was a kind and good man, just as good as anybody else. Charlie would approach Anya with a bunch of wild flowers or a small branch from his lilac tree, wanting to make friends. When Anya was afraid of him, Charlie sensed it, I think, and he looked hurt.

To him, the little girl was just as beautiful as his cabbages. That is how Charlie loved all living and growing things.

Charlie never understood why my father and my husband marked trees to show where the roads should be made. We wanted our roads to be winding, not straight. To Charlie’s way of thinking straight roads would have been more sensible. I am not sure the men who operated the bulldozers did not agree with Charlie.

On a beautiful summer morning, Charlie did not show up for work as usual. My husband went to investigate, and found Charlie in his bed, shivering and feverish. My mother made some hot soup, and together, we tried to look after Charlie, thinking it was only influenza. But Charlie did not get better. My husband decided to take him to the hospital.

Charlie did not want to go, but my husband insisted. In the hospital, my husband was told Charlie had a heart ailment and would have to spend some time in a nursing home. After a few weeks, we started to realize Charlie’s problem was more serious than we had thought, and we accepted the fact Charlie would not come home again.

It was sad to visit him because Charlie always asked when he would be allowed to go home. We tried to reassure him, but we knew Charlie was in the nursing home to stay. We saw to it he had everything he needed, and my husband talked to the director of the nursing home and asked they let Charlie work in the garden there.

Charlie seemed quite content in the garden. However, he stopped asking when he could go home. I think he came to understand homecoming was not going to happen. He accepted it without complaint as he accepted everything else in his life.

One quiet day, Charlie slipped into a coma from which he was never to awaken. We arranged for a funeral for Charlie, which was attended by many local people. More than anyone else, it was my father who missed Charlie, with whom he had shared 18 years working outdoors together.

Once Charlie had told my husband he was not allowed inside the church. After asking around, my husband found the good Christians who attended church every Sunday had decided Charlie was not a desirable presence in the congregation because he did not wash or change his clothes.

My husband then told Charlie he was going to church, and on the following Sunday he and Charlie went to church together. He also told Charlie one day in the church there would be a memorial erected in Charlie’s honor. Charlie was astonished and my husband told me it was possible Charlie did not believe him.

After Charlie’s death, my husband brought a large piece of marble from the Peace Tower in Ottawa in order to arrange for a plaque in the local church, baring the inscription: Charlie Bishop, pioneer. A local craftsman built a bible stand for the plaque, and the church had to accept it. The plaque is still there and my family can testify to Charlie’s good, honest and special character.

Charlie had been a loving man but he did not know how to show his love, except by his actions. We like to think the 18 years he spent with us were happy years for Charlie. I hope the plaque will stay there forever as a testament to the fact that Charlie’s life was neither useless nor insignificant.

The End.

© Amy Thompson.