Open Writing

What stimulates a memory so vivid that you can re-live it?

At a recent concert, a young baritone sang Schubert’s lied Erl König, with its thundering, insistent piano accompaniment. It is the tale of a father riding through a misty forest, his desperately ill child clasped in his arms. The infant, in his fever, sees frightening phantoms reaching out to tear at him; the father calms him, telling him it is the mist swirling. Towards the end of the song, the child begs his father to save him – “It is the Erl King, come to take me away!” “No, my child, it’s only a lonely, grey, willow tree!” At last, the father reached his destination – but, in his arms, his child lay, dead!

Typing that last phrase brought tears to my eyes, and I had to stop for a moment. The terror of the child, the grief of the father, are brilliantly portrayed in this combination of poetry and music. The last time I heard that song, Dad was the singer, my brother the pianist. At this concert, I found myself huddled in my seat, shaking, fists clenched, wishing I could hide behind my mother’s skirts the way I did when I was a little girl listening to Dad and Roger rehearsing.

Over the last two months, with the help of all the family members, my brother and I cleared out the cottage where our mother lived for the last twelve years. She moved to a room in the main building of her retirement village, closer to nursing care and the main dining room.

Going through cupboards that contained her life’s treasures became a process of reliving scenes from our childhood:

A waft of lavender perfume took me straight back to my grandmother’s arms: I experienced again her delight in me, her granddaughter; recognised the twinkle of mischief in her eyes; felt the softness of her beautiful, wrinkled face; saw the shining glory of her white hair.

Mom’s beautiful green hat with its elegant, upswept brim, decorated with brilliant orange feathers, the one she wore when she went on honeymoon, brought back all the fun of “dressing up” on rainy days: the hat slipping down over my eyes; clip-clopping noisily on wooden floors in high heeled shoes five sizes too big; tripping over skirts that swept the floor; scarlet lipstick smeared inexpertly on my seven-year-old lips; the clips on my ears pinching unbearably. Gloomy skies, lightning flashing, thunder crashing and rain hammering on the iron roof were all forgotten in the delights of being so grown up.

“Look at this, Sis!” called my brother from the lounge, where he was clearing out the sideboard. He held up the once-lovely carving dish, its gold edge rubbed almost bare. “Two-Rand-ten’s worth, do you remember?” How could I forget? Dad had thought that paying so much for one plate was exorbitant, and every time he carved the Sunday roast on it, or put it away after washing it, he reminded us of the price. That same plate, today, would probably cost two hundred and ten Rands. It was certainly good value for money, having lasted nearly forty years…

That memory led us back to the time when carbonated cool drinks were first sold in large bottles with screw-on lids. The family was sitting at the table one Saturday lunch-time when Dad offered us some Coke. When he tried to open the bottle the lid was so tight that even his strong engineer’s hands couldn’t shift it. In frustration, he shook the bottle up and down – and suddenly, we were all bathed in sticky, fizzy, brown liquid. Dad’s laughter rang loud, Roger’s echoed his, Mom chuckled, though I suspect her heart sank at the thought of cleaning up the mess. I bent double, laughing until I couldn’t breathe any more, tears streaming down my face as Dad sang, “Izzy’s got ‘em, Izzy’s got ‘em, “ meaning I had the giggles – again!

Photo albums triggered “do you remembers” from everyone – “look, here’s one I took of Bergen when he wasn’t looking, remember how he hated having his photo taken?” and suddenly I could feel again my cuddly child in my arms. Now he stands at six feet tall, and picks ME up!

There were uncountable shelves of music, the songs Mum and Dad sang. Here was “Sylvia” – how Dad hated singing such a sentimental song, though sometimes he would if I begged hard enough. Here was the arrangement of Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze” that was our family showpiece from almost the moment I first put lips to flute – Mum sang, Dad and I played our flutes, and Roger played the piano. Every time I hear that delicate flute duet introduction, I remember our family concerts.

As a family, we visited every “old age home” in and around Johannesburg. Mom and Dad performed dialogues, with the aid of that lovely green hat and – goodness, there was that moth-eaten old night-cap that Dad wore! Roger and I played our latest pieces; he was always my trusted accompanist. On one occasion, the piano that he was playing on suddenly fell forward onto his knees as he played a particularly demanding Chopin Etude. Astonishment, terror and physical strain all showed on his face, as his fingers continued, seemingly effortlessly, to play to the end of the piece – another ten minutes, with the weight of the piano squarely across his lap!

A few years ago, I was sitting at reception at the school where I was secretary. Looking up, I saw the face of a man who had, years ago, been my mentor. Delighted to see each other again, we enjoyed a long chat. Later, I wrote this poem:

Down Memory Lane

Stranger at the counter
Grey hair, white beard
and careworn face.
But is he?
A stranger, I mean?

Welcome, friend,
It's good to see you
here in Memory Lane.

Faces, voices, sights, scents, the feel of fabric between the fingers, and music – always music: these trigger memories of love, laughter and joy. I am privileged.

I wish you, too, the joy of an occasional, happy tear, a laugh and a chuckle, as you share your memories with those you love.

Until next time – “here comes Treble”.

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