A Spirited Boy

Long ago, in my fabled childhood, my piano teacher, Mrs. Crawford, told my mother one evening that I had perfect pitch. This was in my first year, when I used to sing with every note — not because it was expected of me, or that it was part of the lesson; the singing was a spontaneous result of everything that was going on — the sound, the feel of the keys, the vibrations in the room, my mother sitting nearby reading. The atmosphere was charged with magic. Think of it. No telephone or television in sight, personal computers not yet invented; the view of a vineyard at dusk through the west-facing window; a metronome atop the shiny-black grand piano; whole notes, half notes, dim lamps and doilies; patience. There was a grandfather clock, but it wasn’t in the room where we played. It was in a place where it could watch people come and go through the front door, while chiming the hour, as if a spirited boy had climbed its tower to see how loudly he could make the bell sound. How a bell about to ring, shivers at the hand. How a joy about to be, has always been. Such is life with ink and pen.

[ 1960 ]