by Lee Kalcheim
At School for Strings, the littlest kids are finished performing and we are moving into the eight-, nine-, ten-year-olds. Some have enormous presence and no tone. Some look awkward, but play smartly. We can see in them our children growing up before our eyes. The five- and six-year-olds screeching out primitive tunes. The pre-teens testing themselves with Handel and Haydn. We watch their parents, leaning slightly forward when they play, rooting them on, as if they were on the sidelines at a little league game. A chubby little Japanese girl, probably only six, knocks Handel out the park! Whoa! You can see all the waiting kids, looking at each other, intimidated. We have to follow that?
I had given up my childhood clarinet because it was too hard, and now my children were pursuing a much more difficult instrument. Well, they might understand my giving up if they’d heard me play the clarinet. I did play it through college. And in my brief stint in the army. I even got a weekend off from basic training in the army so I could go home and get my clarinet in order to play in the company band. You had to hear our company band to believe it. Two saxophones, a clarinet, a drum and a flute. No trumpets. It sounded like a wounded animal sighing. And the leader of the band was a Polish expatriate who would exhort us to play “Hank is Away.” We’d all look at each other: “‘Hank is Away’? What song is that?” Then he’d hum some of it, and we’d understand. “Ahhh, Anchors Away!” It was my last gig.
The boys would not hear of surrendering. Why should they? Along the way they kept getting positive reinforcement. When we lived in L.A., we went down to La Jolla to visit my old buddy and summer camp mate (we’d known each other then almost fifty years) and the boys took their violins. Out on Bobby and Lorna’s patio, they did a little concert. They played, “Lightly Row,” or one of their simple repertoire, on a quiet afternoon, while my old friend and his wife listened indulgently. When they finished, I looked over at Lorna and saw tears in her eyes. It’s not that they played well, which they had, but these tiny creatures had just invested so much into these complex instruments and gotten such a sweet sound to come out. And they were so serious. And so unafraid. It moved her to tears.
In the recital room, the children are getting older, bigger. And playing better. With some exceptions. One skinny, rosy-cheeked young girl just loses her place. A big sigh, she stops, looks at the accompanist helplessly. They confer. She backs up and starts again. A young blonde boy, built like a linebacker, surprises everyone by playing a sweet and delicate waltz. We look down at the program. Sam and Gabe are next.
The boys file in from “backstage” and stand in front of the piano. They are wearing their blazers and bow ties and the other parents smile at the sight. A woman to my left leans to me, “How nice they look. Kids just don’t dress up any more.”
“Thank you.”
“They tie their own bow ties?”
“Not yet. Bach is easy. Bow ties are hard!”
They tune their violins. Gabe just can’t get his right. His teacher, Katherine, comes, takes the instrument, makes an adjustment and hands it back. He strokes it himself. Nods to Sam and the accompanist. Okay. Julia and I take a deep breath. Sam and Gabe take a deep breath and begin. They are playing Bach! My hero. The father of twenty children and the composer of the resounding “Christmas Oratorio” and the heart rending “Air for G String.” There is nothing he could not do. And that wonderful, weird, warm, tingle goes up my back as I fully grasp that they are playing him. A duet is unusual for a recital. It’s usually only solo pieces, but their being twins made this exception happen. If you make a mistake as a soloist, you recover and go on. You make a mistake in a duet, it’s like a small train wreck. A contrapuntal crash. They have memorized the piece. All students must. More tension to the mix. My stomach tightens as they begin. They progress without a glitch, and my stomach relaxes, and the feeling flies up into my chest. How long ago had it been to that patio in La Jolla where they were playing “Lightly Row?”
I truly could not grasp the idea that they were my children. That my silly little sperm, sperms actually, had fertilized my wife’s eggs and brought forth two Bach-playing violinists. Were the sperm encoded? Did they “talk” to each other on the way up the vaginal canal?
“Hey … this is my trip. Back off.”
“Yours? This is my only chance, I’m gonna get outta here too!”
“Oh? You … uh … You interested in music?”
“Oh, yes, I love music. It’s in my genetic makeup.”
“Your what?”
“If I have it, you have it.”
“Oh yeah? Great. So … if we make it … I mean if we, y’know, fertilize and come to term and all that, whatdaya think about maybe playing something together when we get old enough?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’m a brass man. French horn.”
“How many French horn duets do you know?”
“Oh, right … Well … Violin. There are lots of them.”
“Yes, but it’s a very hard instrument.”
“Can’t be as hard as what we’re doing now.”
“You’re on! See ya at Roosevelt Hospital in March!”
They are into it now. Samuel, sways with the music, like a dancer. Gabe, erect, his mouth tight as he concentrates. Julia looks over at me and her eyes say, “It’s going well.”
I don’t want to spook them, so I just stare forward and keep rooting. At some point, when they are halfway through, halfway home, and I realize they’ve got it, they are in sync, and they’ve got it, I relax and actually hear the music. And then, suddenly, it’s over. And we cry.
I cannot tell you how many recitals, year after year after year, I have felt the tears come to my eyes. We’ve all felt it when our child has done something extraordinary. Hit a home run. Or recited a poem at school. Or brought home a surprisingly charming drawing, or reached out to hug an elderly friend with innocent compassion. But when you find yourself overcome with emotion because your flesh and blood is suddenly pushing beyond the bounds of your expectations, truly, truly surprising you at that instant with the command of something that is almost beyond your understanding, you become overwhelmed not with the simple pride that comes with “ownership,” with being their parent, but, I think, with the awe that this child has invested himself in an endeavor beyond your control. He has become more than your baby. He has become a particular unique self that throws you. It literally throws you and causes your chest to fill and causes you to cry with a deep release that is a wonderful combination of pride and awe and love.
The recital audience applauds wildly. I don’t frankly know how well they played. It sounded good to me. They got through it. And they were cute! We gave them big hugs and their teacher, Katherine, a bouquet of flowers, and we all went out to a festive, neighborhood Italian restaurant, where we were so excited and relieved that Samuel left his violin behind. Gabe reminded him, after we’d picked it up the next day, “Remember when you were little and we met Wynton Marsalis in the elevator on our way up to a lesson with our old teacher? And Mommy was holding my violin? And he said, ‘Boys, always carry your own instruments!’
“Yes Gabe, I remember.”
“Well?”
“I was eating pasta. We were celebrating. I had a sip of Dadoo’s wine. I … I … I was drunk!”
We spring for a taxi to take us home, and on the way down to the village, packed in the cab, they both talk at once.
“It’s terrible; when we’re playing we can see the teachers all taking notes in the first row.”
“I didn’t see them Sam, I was into the music”
“I was ‘into the music’ too, but I still saw them!”
This banter reminded me of our summers in the Berkshires, when every Friday night we’d pile into the car with a picnic basket and blankets stuffed in the boys’ old wagon in the back and head off to Tanglewood, The Tanglewood Music Festival, summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, only ten minutes from our farm house. The boys would chirp in anticipation of the c
oncert, “Emanuel Ax is playing the Mozart piano. He’s the best.”
“Maybe he’ll play at the chamber concert.”
“Yes, remember we saw him two years ago with Malcom Lowe playing the Beethoven Sonatas?”
“Can we sit in the balcony behind so we can watch his fingers?”
From their first visit to Tanglewood, the boys were entranced by the luscious rolling grounds. Green upon green on a summer evening. Views of the Berkshire Hills in the distance. Stockbridge Bowl, the sweet lake that glistened out beyond the Tanglewood trees. The grounds are dotted with small cabins, rehearsal rooms, where, strolling around, you can hear young musicians practicing. When we arrived, the boys would rush to Ozawa Hall, the small concert hall, and get box seats just off the stage, so they could be close and see the performers. Watch Anna Sophie Mutter’s fingers as they danced up and down the neck of her violin. Or we’d sit up in back of the stage so we could watch Emanuel Ax’s fingers as they danced along the keys of the piano. And the best part—the concert was free. Included in the price of your “lawn ticket.”
After the Chamber concert, we’d stroll to the lawn where we’d left our picnic unattended atop our old wagon. We’d spread out a blanket and eat our roast chicken as the evening sun descended and the first stars came out. We could hear the BSO warm up. A cue to the boys. The boys had become obsessed with the BSO and had started to dress like them. We’d found in a thrift shop boy-sized white dinner jackets, just like the ones the orchestra members wore. So they dressed up as BSO members, in the white jackets and dark pants and ties, and when the lights flashed that the concert was about to start, the well dressed boys simply walked into the Shed … right past the ushers, too charmed by twin boys in BSO-like garb to stop them … and ran down the aisle looking for empty seats. Julia and I lay on the lawn to listen. And would often be joined by the boys for the second half, so we could all snuggle together under the blankets, looking up at the stars, taking in the glorious music. Friday after Friday after Friday, all summer long we went. And summer after summer after summer. By the end of many of the concerts, Sam had fallen asleep under the blankets, and we’d have to pick him up, put him in our wagon, and roll him, fast asleep, across the lawn, down the hill, into the parking lot where we’d lift him, still sleeping, into the car.
As the boys grew, we had to find larger-sized white jackets. And soon they were vociferously analyzing each performance. Van Cliburn was too slow. Yo Yo Ma was showboating. Hillary Hahn was perfect. Better than Joshua Bell. Subtler. Week after week. Year after year. Composer after composer. Performer after performer, we could see their knowledge and enthusiasm growing before our eyes. I remember when the kids were about eight and we were in the car, driving to the country, and the radio announcer said, “Next, we will hear Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue.’”. Sam shouted from the back seat. “Turn that off! No rap music!”
It is six months after the recital. A chilly November evening in New York. My sons are playing, one in the living room, one in his bedroom, preparing for another recital. Over and over and over they play their pieces. I am working in the kitchen on a rewrite of a play, having difficulty with its ending. I remember what the great playwriting teacher, John Gassner, once said, “If you’re having trouble with the third act, rewrite the first.” He’s usually right. I flip back to act one, and start reading. It’s so damned hard. Rewriting. But writing is rewriting. I think Aeschylus may have said that.
Gabe walks into the kitchen after practicing. “Boy, this is really hard.” A lesson had come full circle. I had told them as little boys, “Always do something difficult. It will be more interesting while you do it and more rewarding having done it.” And here was Gabe telling me how hard the violin is, but still pushing to be good at it—reminding me, reminding us, cautioning us, that when we are confronted with something difficult, we had to keep at it. After a day at school, and hours of homework, he and his brother would pick up their fiddles and still play for two hours, late into the night. So that now, when I am faced with a difficult rewrite or Julia with an impossible negotiation, or even some more mundane roadblock, we cannot “phone it in.” We had to approach it with the vigor and integrity that we saw our son’s giving to their violins. Whether my sons remembered my advice of years ago, they had lived it and were now teaching us, reminding us to live it ourselves.
And so, what I had learned from my children also, and maybe most of all, was that, if you teach them well, they will keep you honest.
SCENE: SAMUEL AND GABRIEL’S BEDROOM.
(Lee is there.)
LEE
Guys, you really have to empty some of the stuff out of your backpacks. They weigh a ton. It’s not good for your backs.
SAM
We will.
LEE
When? I asked you last week.
GABE
Dadoo, we’re busy.
LEE
You’re always busy. And it never gets done.
(He picks up Gabe’s backpack)
Jesus! Do you have a cinder block in here?
SAM
I’m trying to write a paper.
LEE
Why not take five minutes? Five minutes and just triage the stuff you don’t need every day.
(They ignore him)
Five minutes. What difference can five minutes make right now?
GABE
We’ll do it, Dadoo. We’ll really do it. But not now.
LEE
Okay. How about if, I do it. I pretty much know what you need and don’t need.
(He picks out a huge book from Gabe’s backpack)
Do you need this humongous math book every day?
GABE SAM
Yes! Dadoo!
(Dadoo exits, Julia passes in the hall)
JULIA
Everything okay in there?
LEE
Perfect.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY
One talent that is missing from my repertoire, which lacks an array of other talents including: repairing a car, folding laundry neatly, sustaining a diet, and reading a newspaper quietly in bed, is waking up my kids for school.
I think I am good at it. (I also think I’m good at speaking Italian, but my family hides from embarrassment when I try it. Having the guts to do something and having the talent should not be confused.) But what little skill I had at waking my kids was sorely tested when the boys started high school. The public high school was not walking distance from the apartment, so Sam and Gabe took the subway uptown (uptown!) to Fifty-Ninth Street and then walked (usually ran) two very long blocks west and two north to the school, wearing full, very heavy backpacks. And sometimes carrying their violins and/or fencing gear. School started at 8:00, so they had to leave the house at the latest at 7:30. While Julia walked the dog, it was my job to wake them. I’d walk into my kids’ room at ten to seven and say, in the sweetest, happy-go-lucky tone, “Gentlemen, it’s ten to seven. Time to get up. Chilly today. Wear lined pants. Long sleeve shirts. Up and at ’em. Adam and Eve!” And I’d turn and walk to the kitchen to start making breakfast. I’d put on water for tea. Get out cereal, juice, etc, and start making the boys’ lunches. I’d check the clock. Seven. Time for a second call.
“Okay gentlemen, it’s seven o’clock. You have one half hour to shower, if you so choose, and dress and eat and go. I suggest you get up. Now.” Notice the happy-go-lucky has left. It’s now down-to-business. But still civil.
I’d return to the kitchen and lovingly make ham and cheese sandwiches on rolls. New rolls. They didn’t like the old rolls. The old rolls were too soft. These are hard rolls. They seem too hard. I toast them briefly to soften them. (Did my mother do this for me?) I’d check the clock. It’s 7:10. I’d walk urgently into their room.
“Okay! It’s 7:10. You have twenty minutes. Let’s get to it. Sam, Gabe—get the hell up! This is your last call!”
Back to the kitchen. Where are the plastic containers for their lu
nches? Back to the bedroom. Open their backpacks. There they are.
“Guys, I’ve been asking you since second grade to bring your lunch boxes to the kitchen after school. Don’t you think you could start doing that?”
Back to the kitchen. Happy-go-lucky and Down-to business have been replaced by Get-your-ass-in-gear! I pack their lunches. It’s 7:15. Back to the bedroom.
“It’s 7:15! You have fifteen minutes to dress, eat, and leave. Are you or are you not going to get up?”
Sam raises his head and in a deftly sardonic tone he says, “Dadoo, we heard you the first time.”
They have been lying in bed for a half an hour. Comatose. The previous times, I came in to lovingly remind them of their obligation to get out bed. Now I am frothing and Sam can say to me in this God-what-I-have-to-put-up-with tone, “We heard you the first time.” I wanted to shout, “If you heard me the first time why didn’t you get up the first time?” And oops, I actually said it. “If you heard me the first time, etc. …”
