As I drove to school yesterday, I was listening to Josh Groban the only way I know how: at the top of my lungs. I usually hunch down in my seat to avoid witnesses, but I was in fine spirits, so I rolled down the windows for all to enjoy. I was in the middle of a moving rendition of “Now or Never” (from Groban’s third album, Awake, available at Barnes and Noble and other fine retailers), when I saw something rather intriguing.
In front of me, there was a young Asian man with a huge backpack running along the shoulder of the road with his hands in his pockets. A hundred yards ahead, there was an overweight curly-headed guy in cut-offs running toward the Asian man. I thought I saw a spark between them as they ran toward each other. I belted out, “Oh, darling can’t you see, it’s now or never. It’s now or never,” as they picked up speed and approached what I hoped would be a monumental embrace.
But, for reasons I will never know, the embrace never happened. The Asian guy, hands still in his pockets, ran right past the fat guy, eyes on the horizon. I’m not going to lie: I was disappointed. How cool would that hug have been, with me serenading them as I drove by?
I continued singing, but the song had lost all meaning. In my rear-view mirror I could see the fat guy picking a wedgy as he ran, impervious to the opportunity he had just missed. “And it’s no one’s fault; there’s no black and white…it’s now or never. It’s now or never.”
Maybe they didn’t realize it was now or never. Perhaps they never will.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A Memory
When I was young, we had a baby grand piano in our front room. My father had a small repertoire of songs he could play: the Irish Reel, On Top of the World, and a handful of Christmas Carols. There were a few more that I’m sure he made up. One in particular stands out. It was a succession of chords similar to Heart and Souls, where my father would start humming along softly, and soon he would be in a roar of yodeling and bellowing. There were no words, but none were needed. It filled the house with joy.
One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.
He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.
A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.
I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.
One evening, when I was seven, my dad sat down to play the piano. I curled up on the upholstered chair nearby to listen. He was playing a sweet little melody I hadn’t heard before. “This is the story of your grandfather, Blaine,” he said. He continued to play, and after a while, he hit a sour sounding note. I thought he had made a mistake, but then he hit another, and another. The melody became increasingly scrambled with sharps and flats thrown in haphazardly. The cacophony continued for some time, making me a little uncomfortable, and then it abruptly ended. My father looked at the keys for a moment, and then continued with the original, peaceful melody, only this time a little quieter.
He didn’t need to explain what this meant. Even at seven I understood.
A few months later, my father knelt down in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders, and told me Grandpa had passed away. For as sad as I wanted to be, I kept hearing those sweet sounding notes that followed the discordant ones. I knew my grandfather was no longer wrestling with Alzheimer’s. His melody was now the way it was supposed to be.
I’ve often thought of this simple yet powerful lesson my father taught me about mortality. In the funerals I’ve attended over the years, no speeches, eulogies or remembrances have been as true as the notes my father played for me that evening on our piano.
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