Amelia went on to study at Florida State University, majoring in history and international law. After college, her interests and abilities led her to Washington, D.C., where she got a job with a very long title: Editor and Director of Publications for the State Department Interdepartmental Committee for Cultural and Scientific Cooperation. While working there, she had fallen in love again, this time with a Navy captain whose ship was part of the Pacific fleet during World War II. On one of his Pacific missions, his ship was attacked and severely damaged. He managed to get his crew to safety, but as the last person left on board, he had been unable to save himself and went down with his ship. Amelia had been in her early twenties then, and again coping with major loss.
Shortly before the war ended, Amelia’s friendship with Doug Haygood turned into a love affair. Doug’s wife, Margaret, had left him, and once the divorce was final, he asked Amelia to marry him. This meant a move to Cleveland, where his psychology practice was based. Two of Doug’s four sons were already in college, and two were still home with their father, so Amelia became both Doug’s wife and a stepmother to his children.
Through their years together, Doug and others in the psychology field began to recognize that Amelia had a natural gift for working with people. Her new direction—studying and pursuing a career in psychology—followed. In the last years before Doug’s sudden death, Amelia and Doug had been in private practice together.
The fatal evening had begun like many others. Doug and Amelia had gone out with friends to a favorite restaurant where a jazz combo played on certain evenings. Doug loved to sit in as a pianist with the group and had an open invitation to do so. On this evening, during one of the sets, he suddenly slumped over the piano. Some in the group at first thought it was a joke because Doug was also a talented comedian, who sometimes added unexpected twists to give everyone a laugh. But Amelia knew instantly that something was terribly wrong. Doug had suffered a massive heart attack and died at the age of fifty-seven.
Although Amelia’s losses and reorientations had been very different from mine, I was beginning to understand some of the factors that had contributed to her remarkable wisdom and perspective. As we talked further, she described the concept of premature aging, which occurs when a younger person becomes infirm overnight and then is forced to make unforeseen life choices. At the VA hospital, she had worked with wounded veterans experiencing that syndrome.
Premature aging made a lot of sense to me, and I told Amelia about the ambitious number of tasks I had taken on as a teenager: being a scholarship student at school, teaching a number of private piano students, practicing the piano many hours a day, performing in public—all part of what had once been my normal life. But now, six years after the polio attack, it was difficult for me to do even simple, everyday things; I had to rest frequently and was still struggling at the piano to attain uncertain goals. And since I had chosen that struggle, I had to turn my back on many things that others my age could do easily.
The concept of premature aging resonated with me from another direction. When I was seven, I had learned in school about a hunter-gatherer custom: When an older and ailing tribal member decided that he or she could no longer keep up with the rest of the tribe, the elder would simply stay behind, indicating that the others should go on ahead. The teacher had explained that the elder had made that choice knowing that no one could survive alone. I found that horrifying. I couldn’t help picturing one of my beloved grandmothers in that plight. The image had haunted me for a long time, and even gave me nightmares.
A few years after the polio struck, I had sometimes wondered if I had become useless far younger than those unfortunate tribal elders. That fear had been hitting me especially since I had come home from Europe “in defeat,” feeling that I could be part of things only with someone else’s help. On several levels, the “premature aging” characterization of my condition was a revelatory concept.
This discussion with Amelia enabled me to touch on some deep terrors of the past six years. I confided that, with very few exceptions, I had been avoiding any talk about my illness. Or if I mentioned it, I would gloss over the most difficult aftereffects. In Amelia’s opinion, trying to keep the extent of my illness a secret had probably been isolating, and would eventually become too much of a burden for me. As we talked, I had a sudden insight: My feeling about the aftereffects had a lot in common with a sense of shame.
As I got to know Amelia better over time, whenever she mentioned that she preferred to “get down into the well” with a patient, rather than sitting at the top and trying to pull the patient out, I always thought of that first extended discussion when she had been willing to do exactly that with me—the first time anyone had truly done so. I had a loving family and some good friends, but I had rarely let anyone go with me into the dark places.
Until I met Amelia, I had mostly felt alone in those dark places. This great new gift of friendship with someone who understood the psychological toll that my post-polio years had taken, and who could enable me to discuss it for the first time, was priceless—probably the single most important stroke of good fortune in my entire post-polio life.
Another startling aspect that emerged as I got to know Amelia was her view of my options—a view no one else seemed to share. I had told her where my change in direction was headed, since piano playing was going to be mainly for myself and as an aid to teaching. But against all conventional wisdom, she was convinced that I still had something to say as a performing pianist.
Although Amelia came from outside the music world, she listened frequently to the best of classical music performances with a keen ear that many top musicians were to comment on in the years to come. Here was the amazing truth: She heard in my playing some of the things I had carried around in my head and heart ever since those struggling days in Vienna, when I would imagine the music as I wanted to hear it and would will it to take powerful shape in my mind.
It was life-changing to discover that Amelia found those musical ideas treasurable, despite my handicapped playing mechanism. I already knew that the best plan was always to approach any passage—even one containing what appeared to be an insurmountable problem—as if it were about to reveal itself. And for that approach to be most effective, I had to anticipate the potential revelation as joyful, fun, or intriguing. I had to feel that I was just about to find the way.
As we discussed these concepts, I told Amelia the story of teaching in my early teens, and that I had known instinctively how to help the neighborhood children make progress at the piano. Because I had emphasized the joy rather than the time spent practicing, my young students had accomplished much more than anyone had expected of them.
We agreed that I now had to approach my own efforts not as “work” so much as anticipation of pleasure—the thrill of playing a beautiful phrase, total immersion in a short musical passage. Once upon a time, pre-polio, that feeling had come naturally, when I was able to do anything I could imagine at the keyboard.
But this long rehabilitation required mental and emotional work that was far more complex. Neurologists and physical-medicine experts looked at my hands, arms, shoulders, and upper body, and told me that what I was attempting was out of the question; I was wasting my time.
Amelia seemed to understand what I had been unable to explain to anyone else. She understood that tiny, almost imperceptible improvements came about partly because I was approaching them in expectation of discovering something positive, and being elated at the prospect. She believed wholeheartedly that the positive image was essential. If I could imagine myself doing this beautiful or exciting or joyous thing, I had a remote fraction of a chance of making some improvement—of taking one step among hundreds of steps that would be required. And she understood that I had learned to notice the tiniest degree of progress. I told her I knew I had miles to go, but that a millimeter of progress thrilled me.
It was wonderful to talk all this through. Amelia also suggested that I should start pl
aying more, informally, for small groups, and see what might emerge. She mentioned friends and colleagues to whom an afternoon or evening of classical music—played live for them by someone as devoted as I was—would have great meaning. These were colleagues who spent their working days with people who were in trouble, with youngsters gone astray, with devastated families—painful situations requiring agonizing decisions.
Amelia was sure these colleagues would treasure live, informal performances. To her, great classical music could provide “a shelter against the heavy weather which comes to us all,” as she was later to write in a CD introduction. It wouldn’t have to be a long program; she thought I should start small. The Schubert B-flat Sonata could be the “program,” for instance. Or the Beethoven Opus 109, with or without a Bach prelude and fugue before it—a program I had done for my parents and their friends before moving to LA.
Amelia found it easy and natural to bring a few of her friends over to my little bungalow, where I could play through something, followed by dinner out with the group. Or sometimes the visitors would bring refreshments. Amelia continued to emphasize how much the informal evenings of great music meant to her friends, which in turn helped to ease my play-through fears.
Psychologist Craig Boardman and his wife, Helen, who was head of social work at Children’s Hospital in LA, became “regulars” at these play-throughs. Craig was a wonderful storyteller, but when I complimented him, he said no one could match Doug Haygood for hilarious stories. Sometimes Amelia invited a beloved mentor of hers, psychologist Bruno Klopfer, and his wife, Erna. They had fled Nazi Germany, and Bruno had worked with Carl Jung in Switzerland before emigrating to the United States. Bruno radiated compassion in a quiet way, and I felt especially relaxed around him. After one of the play-throughs, he confided that if he had a close friend or family member who needed to talk through a problem, he would send that person to Amelia.
Another friend of Amelia’s who became a “regular” was a French-Swiss woman, Jeanne Hansen, who ran the classical department of the local record store. Jeanne’s husband had also died recently, and when Amelia popped into the store from time to time, they had become close friends with a great deal in common. Jeanne, too, was particularly knowledgeable about classical music.
Already in love with the piano—at about eighteen months.
Edward Bredshall in 1948.
Webster Aitken in the early 1950s.
Mom and Dad in Southern California in 1965.
Eve Brackett at home in Malibu.
Walking on the beach in Malibu. Photo by Richard Gross.
Amelia Haygood at home in Santa Monica. Photo by Millard Tipp.
Pre-concert note from Gloria Steinem and the Ms. Magazine staff. April 1974.
At the party after my UCLA performance in 1976—left to right: Mom, Whit Cook, Michael Kermoyan, Betty and Gene Ling.
Jimmy DePreist and I listen to a playback during the recording session of The Four Temperaments at Abbey Road Studios, London. June 1976. Photo by Reg Wilson.
Jerry Schwarz and I plan a recording session. Fall 1980. Photo by Johan Elbers.
Recording session of Dvořák Stabat Mater with the New Jersey Symphony and the Westminster Choir. Front row left to right: me, co-producer Stephen Basili, conductor Zdenek Macal, recording engineer John Eargle. Back row left to right: co-producer Karl Held, Amelia, choral conductor Joseph Flummerfelt. February 1994. Photo by Arthur Paxton.
With Constantine Orbelian, after a concert at Peterhof Palace in St. Petersburg. Summer 1999.
With Sean Hickey, composer and Naxos VP, Sales and Business Development. August 2013.
Recording session of Mark Abel’s new opera Home Is a Harbor—with co-producer Christopher Anderson-Bazzoli, left, and composer Mark Abel, right. July 2015. Photo by Tom Zizzi.
One day Louise Gretschel, another of Amelia’s colleagues who came to some of the play-throughs and had a challenging job with LA County Juvenile Services, suggested that the three of us visit an acquaintance of hers, Eve Brackett, who lived in Malibu and had a fine piano in her living room. She was sure Eve would like to have some live music there, as well.
Eve’s apartment overlooked the Pacific Ocean, and her front deck had a spectacular, sweeping view of Santa Monica Bay. Eve was a Bostonian in her early fifties who had moved to California recently, and was still marveling at life in Malibu, where she was now free to pursue her own interests since her two sons had become well established with families of their own. Eve’s husband, Truman, a Boston businessman, remained on the East Coast, but would visit when he could.
Eve loved music and art, and was planning to write a book, which she confessed was going slowly. I played her piano for a bit, walked onto the deck to breathe with the tide for a few minutes, and then we all went out to dinner at The Sea Lion, a modest restaurant in a stunning beachfront location.
At one point Amelia mentioned nostalgically how much she and Doug had loved living in Malibu. She had not been able to keep their hillside house after he died and had moved into a rented apartment in LA. Suddenly Eve had a brainstorm. She had heard that the apartment across the hall was going to be available before long and would be happy to find out more, since she had become friends with the landlord.
From that point, things were on the move. Eve soon reported that the apartment, which also had a spectacular ocean view, could be rented for little more than the rent Amelia was presently paying in the city. As it turned out, the building next door would soon have a smaller apartment available with the same ocean view. That apartment included a nice-sized room over the garage that could be a studio for my Steinway and where I could do any kind of awkward practicing without bothering anyone. My Malibu Era was about to begin.
In all three apartments, the sundecks overlooking the ocean extended over the water at high tide. You could see large rocks under one of the decks and watch all sorts of seabirds, and even a seal from time to time. On a clear night, our view of the bay included a sparkling string of lights.
In my apartment, I had the back room over the garage converted into a studio, lined with cork to temper the sound, air-conditioned so that the piano strings wouldn’t get too much salt air, and double-glazed as a buffer against the highway noise. When the piano was not in use, it was covered by what we called a “complete kimono.”
A long, blissful walk on the beach every day helped to balance out my struggles at the piano. The ocean seemed to be giving me back something I had used up in my post-polio years—a perspective that could take some of the sting out of my uphill climb. I could go back and work at the piano after the ocean had dispelled some of the tension and discouragement. If you gazed at the water and let yourself breathe with the tide, everything else mattered just a little less, and that was an enormous relief. And right next door were two good friends with whom I could discuss anything and everything.
As I became close to Amelia and Eve, my limited existence was gradually enhanced and extended far beyond what I could manage alone. I felt as if I could become more a part of the world around me. Eve had the time to give dinner parties, cocktail parties, and tea parties, and loved playing hostess to doctors, psychologists, social workers, artists, and musicians. She had an elegant appearance and manner, and was always a lively conversationalist.
Amelia was genuinely interested in just about everyone she had ever met, remembered what they told her about themselves and their lives, and thus was always a magnet. She radiated an empathy that came from her very core. She always had many strands of thought going on and could express any one of them with naturalness and ease. When Amelia was around, there was never an awkward silence, and her encouraging manner brought out thoughts or feelings that others usually kept below the surface.
All I had to do was show up at these intimate gatherings, which always had lively conversation and often music. And during the play-through part, of course, I could concentrate on the all-important “performance.”
Eve had volunteered in medical se
ttings back in Boston, while her sons were growing up, and had begun to do some medical volunteer work at UCLA, so she brought in some interesting people from that world. The three of us became close friends with a highly respected neurologist, Margaret Jones, who took great interest in my situation and was helpful when I had strange side effects from various exercises or practice patterns. We also became close to a doctor of physical medicine and his wife, David and Sara Rubin, who were very helpful when my muscles got into trouble. And there were other new friends, all of whom enjoyed hearing me play something I had been working on, and who began to feel part of my many-year struggle.
Eve went back to Boston every so often to be with her husband, Truman, and their sons’ families, but was always happy to get back to Malibu. Truman came to visit her whenever possible, especially in December and January. At those times her elegantly beautiful wardrobe would emerge, and inevitably Truman would glance over at Amelia and me, and anyone else present, and exclaim, “That’s my gal! That’s my gal!”
To Play Again Page 17
