A LIFETIME OF MUSIC

Apogee

(For Anna May)

Lofty notes fly

high to the heavens

awaken our souls

to lilting song;

a chorus of cymbals

staccatos our laughter,

lifts us to linger

beyond the throng.

I don’t remember the first time I visited Mrs. Lister. I do remember years of getting out of Dad’s Ford, in front of her flat in a large older home on University Avenue in Fredericton, New Brunswick. My sister and I climbed the stairs, opened the door to a long hallway, and hung up our coats. Then we went into the parlour.

Mrs. Lister sat at the piano, waiting. I’m sure she knew that my lesson was not much better prepared than it had been the week before. I wasn’t much interested in piano. Once Mrs. Lister cried because I was so bad. I preferred to watch while Susan took her turn. It was soothing to hear the sound of the metronome and the uneven tinkle of the keys.

Many pupils went through Mrs. Lister’s door and into her cluttered and dimly lit room. I was seven when she, at the age of seventy-five, took me on as a pupil.

I smile now when I think about all the recitals. If Mrs. Lister’s pupils weren’t performing for parents in her living room, then they were spending a Saturday afternoon performing for the “old people”; Mrs. Lister always considered herself young compared to those in the seniors’ homes. Her pupils had to compete in nerve-wracking music festivals too. I never came close to winning, but Mrs. Lister assured all of us that we had done well. She supported our smallest efforts.

Unable to be with her students during a festival one year, she sent me a letter afterwards. “. . . as I imagined my dear pupils played, I prayed and dear it seems to me that I was there too as I shut my eyes. This is a marvellous thing. You did the trio all yourselves. I am so proud…”

I can’t forget the time I decided to sing in a local variety show. Mrs. Lister thought it was a splendid idea. When I showed her my selection, she told me that rock and roll was out of the question. She was appalled. When the night of the show arrived I walked on stage with a teddy bear, and sang, The Teddy Bear’s Picnic. That was my biggest sacrifice for Mrs. Lister.

The eternal optimist, she drilled, “There is no such word as can’t. Repeat after me. There is no such word as can’t.” 

She had a ruler. She slapped that ruler on the edge of the piano so hard I thought both would crack. We had no choice but to believe her. There is ab-so-lute-ly no such word as can’t. Period. End of discussion.

Looking back now, I realize how difficult it must have been for her to be forced into complete retirement and forfeit her independence. My piano lessons stopped when she was eighty-one and she went to a special-care home.

I was afraid Mrs. Lister would die. She was frail at the time and it made me sad to visit her. However, she did convalesce and was transferred to a home maintained by the IODE. It was then that I learned the most valuable lessons from my music teacher: she taught me the importance of correspondence. The number of notes I received from her reflected the attitude toward life that she always showed me. She wrote often during the mid sixties.

Dear Barbara, my piano’s sold and music packed away. But Wednesday I played all of Beethoven’s Pathétic Sonata (note for note) in my memory as I was resting from two to four. This sonata is a great favourite of mine and is sixteen pages long. I studied it first in Montreal in my nineteenth year of age, later with a German professor at Leipzig. Keep up your music dear, it is always a comforter.

And an excerpt from another letter,

My dear Barbara, Yesterday morning I got up at five o’clock and looked out my double window. At the end of the bridge coming up over the hill, the edge of the sun was peeping. The sky all around was a bright red and orange, as if an artist had taken a big brush and splashed paint on as untidy as he could. Oh it was a sight worth seeing. Then the sun stretched himself up and the river began to sparkle. Oh it was worth getting up to see.

How I loved my visits with her. Her card table sat in front of the window, stacked high with papers, odds and ends. Just the two of us sat there and sipped tea while I listened to her stories. She explained the importance of fine china, the concepts of the game of bridge, how the St. John River was far wider and nicer than the Rhine or any of several rivers in Europe. She showed me her quilt blocks, the mittens she had knitted and the dolls she had dressed. One day we had lunch in the dining room together. These were very special times.

Following an illness in her mid-eighties, she wrote to me, “Friday I taxied up town – the first time in a year and four months. I did some shopping and walked from Zellers down to Regent Street, very slowly, then taxied home. Quite a new sensation to be on the front street again.”

As an adolescent I did not appreciate how special this walk of one and a half blocks must have been for her and the determination it took to accomplish it.

There was a three or four-year period when my correspondence with Mrs. Lister waned and my visits tapered off. I went to a neighbouring city to study, but when I returned, I discovered she was living in a senior’s residence across the street from me. I wandered over.

She looked beautiful resting in her bed. I was amazed that her bedroom window faced the front door to my home. We had a brief time together and talked very little; we smiled at each other and held hands. Before I left, she gave me a pair of white mittens with pink stripes that she had knitted, but I’m not certain if she knew me. I like to think that she did. I never went back although I kept her in my thoughts. She died a short time later at the age of ninety-three. 

Mrs. Lister and I had a secret. She was the only person who knew I aspired to be a writer. I kept this to myself until I was in my thirties. She told me she had written one book. It came into my possession after her death and it is her journal about her travels with six other women to study music in Leipzig. Through her narrative I am able to reach back eighty years and visit some of the places and people she touched. I discovered, too, that as a young woman she had sometimes been quite nervous and lacked confidence. Her story revealed her enjoyment of dancing, and a good sense of humour. She saw a Chestnut canoe, made in Fredericton, on a stream in Germany. She was there for the hundredth anniversary celebration of the Battle of Leipzig and shared other interesting tid-bits of history in her writing:

 October 18, 1913,

This is a big holiday celebrating the anniversary of the Battle of Leipzig, which was fought 100 years ago. Of course the Germans won. The crowd gathered fast and we were hemmed in, could not move, with a big horse and policeman . . . in front of us . . . We saw the Russian Prince, the Kings of Saxony and Bavaria, a Polish Duke, the Kaiser and his sons, and a number of others we could not find out about . . . The houses had rows of lighted candles in them . . . there were 1,000,000 people in the City today.

April 15, 1914,

This is the last evening meal we shall have at this pension. I dislike it, especially the mistress. The other day she did not know I was in my room and I heard her and her cousin say that they hated the English. He was going to South Africa to rouse up the Boers, whatever for I don’t know . . . Played a game of checkers with Ella (Hungarian) tonight and she got provoked because I was winning. She swept the board with her hand and said, “That’s what we’ll do with you British.” What she means I can’t fathom, but she did seem cross.

I will share one last excerpt from Mrs. Lister’s letters to me. It’s a simple tale to remind us that no matter how much we may fear something, we can face it, smile and move on.

Dearest Barbara, I must tell you an experience I had once when holidaying at New River Beach. We had gathered around a bonfire on the beach, cooked some clams. At ten o’clock we decided to put out the fire and return to our cottage. As I looked back I saw (when going up the walk) the fire was starting again. So I went back and put more water on it. As I returned, at a crossroad, I saw a moose and a deer right in my path. What was I to do? For the rest had gone on. I was alone. For a moment I was frightened as that moose looked fierce. Then I remembered reading about a similar incident. This article said if you look an animal right in the eye you are safer than if you let them see you are afraid. This I did for about five minutes (which seemed like five hours). There we stood just looking at each other. Then I forced a smile. He moved his forefoot – tossed his head. (I’m sure I got white or red, frightened to death but fortunately I did not scream). He tossed his head again, turned and the two of them went back down the road. I nearly fainted I was so relieved. However, I went on walking (not running) and met my husband who was wondering what had happened. If you want to ever use this true story in your writing, go ahead.

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