Can’t Beat It!

 

Taking a detour from my usual walking course, I turn right on Clinton instead of continuing on ahead up 31^st street. Why?

            My former piano student lives in the Purple House on Clinton. So, if I turn instead of continuing on, I walk right by his house. I miss him and his family. I had to give up teaching piano for a time in the fall because of my partner, Ian’s, illness. Then when I was able to teach again, I couldn’t seem to connect with Cedar. Missed texts and voice mail tag. Emails sent out and never answered. I finally gave up. But it’s always felt strange. To at least not formally say ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘hope you keep playing the piano’ before disconnecting.

            As I walk under the shade of two huge sycamore trees, I glance across the street at the Purple House. No sign of life. No mom out in the garden. No sound of Mozart floating through the open windows. It’s strange.

            But today, as I pass a large two-story shaded house, surrounded by thick bushes, tall flowers and spiky succulents, I spy a man sitting on a bench in his front yard. He’s dressed in a red tank top and black shorts, sporting a thick gold chain and nodding his head to what must be music.

            “Good morning!” I call out since he’s caught my eye. “Beautiful day!”

            “That it is!” he grins. “I got my coffee. I’m listening to my jazz. Can’t beat it!” He raises his coffee mug toward me as I march past.

            “You got that right,” I answer, smiling. He’s right. Sitting out in the yard, drinking your morning beverage, listening to your music of choice, staring up at the blue sky and puffy elephant clouds, what could be better?

            As I turn up 32^nd street, I sigh though. At the moment, all is good. I’m outside. Walking. It is a beautiful day, a little cool and breezy, but with signs that it will warm up and be a pleasant afternoon. Yet, I’ve been cooped up in the house all weekend with my poor sick Ian. He’s so frail and depressed. I wish there were something I could do to help him, but there’s not.

            Last night, as I was cleaning up the dishes, he was standing at the threshold between the kitchen and dining room looking so sad. I stopped the running water, dried my hands, and went over and gave him a big hug.

            “Ohhhh. You are so sweet,” he murmured, hugging me back, needing the touch, the sympathy that only our bodies can communicate.

            “Well, not really,” I pulled away, turning back to the pile of unfinished dishes. “But it looked like you could use a hug. I’m so sorry you’re feeling so crummy.”

            He nodded, his eyes foggy behind his thick wired rimmed glasses.

            It’s all so sad. And, I can’t get away from it. There is hope, I suppose. A surgery is being scheduled that will hopefully send him on the road to recovery. But it will be a long, arduous road. I don’t know if I’m up for it.

            At the top of 32^nd street now, I spy Mike and his big black cat who’s doing multiple roll-overs at his feet on the warm cement. “How ya doing?” he calls out to me across the street.

            “I’m fine,” I answer, deciding that I don’t have the energy to go over and chat.

            The cat is busy and round, rolling over, getting up, rubbing against his legs, then plopping down again.

            “Just hangin with the cat!” he calls out, grinning widely.

            “Nothing beats it!” I answer, heading briskly up to the corner.

            And, it’s true. Being out in the morning air, walking, talking to neighbors and cats, counting the elephant clouds in the sky. I have to live in this moment. And I can. For a little while.       

            As I turn the corner, I head down McBryde, humming the Turkish Rondo to myself. I think how I’m going to call Cedar. Find out how the Mozart is going. Maybe start working with him again.    

  Or I could just keep walking. Humming. Chatting.

            At least for the next 45 minutes….    

Yundi plays Mozart Rondo alla Turca