Christmas is almost on our doorstep and I’m travelling down memory road once again, thinking of my father who has been gone for most of my life. I’m also thinking of my son Mitchell, who is on the other side of the world and will be celebrating Christmas in Australia this year. As I decorate our house for Christmas, putting garland and lights on the wooden banister, there is a silent watcher. One day this past fall, as I moved quickly through the living room, I caught a glimpse of our son Mitchell’s cello standing in the corner. It spoke to me saying, “tell the story this Christmas.” And so, as this is yet another winter without my father, and one of our first holidays without Mitchell at home, I thought I’d share the story I wrote about both of them….and the cello that links them to me.
Without further to do, here it is:
The Call of the Cello
My father was a man’s man. He drove truck for a living, could swear with the best of them and coached hockey, with a warrior’s heart. He was also a romantic. He wrote poetry into the wee hours of the night. We’d be lulled to sleep listening to him tapping away on his old Underwood typewriter, while his fragrant, woodsy pipe smoke settled over us, like a warm, patchwork quilt. On Saturday night, when Dad started tuning his violin, my three, older sisters and I knew we were in for a laughter filled evening dancing, singing and clapping. The night always ended with a melancholy tune that would linger long after the last note ended. After Dad died in a truck accident when I was five, our house was hauntingly silent, like a big wad of cotton batten had been stuffed into every room. Since then, I carry memories of him hidden in a box, deep in my chest.
Sometimes music lifts the lid.
The year after Dad died we moved from our little town of Hope to the larger city of Chilliwack. Our house remained dark and quiet until I started playing piano at age seven. I took lessons for two years and practised diligently on our small, three octave organ, but it wasn’t long before I had to pretend to play notes that weren’t there. There wasn’t money for a real piano. There was hardly money for lessons. Besides, my sister J, who had been taking ballet lessons, was showing natural talent. She would walk around the house like a Prima ballerina with a book on her head, and while washing the dishes suddenly drop into a deep plie. No, there was definitely no money for a piano. I don’t remember being overly bothered at the time. I joined our church’s youth choir and got involved with anything musical offered at school.
But as childhood memories often do, they influence the choices we make as parents. When we started our family, I was emphatic that our children have their choice of extra curricular activities. While they chose everything from Irish Dance to Tae Kwon Do, the consistent thread that wove through our children’s lives was a musical one. They all chose an instrument, several in some cases, and we made sacrifices to give them all lessons. After school, our house was a cacophony of sound; piano, violin, flute, sax, guitar, drums, to name a few but for some reason, it was when our son Mitchell played his cello, that I was touched the deepest.
One evening, as I was preparing dinner, Mitchell started to practise his cello. Scales first, steadily travelling up and down the fingerboard. Then he started to play an achingly beautiful piece called, “The Swan.” Low, deep resonating notes, contrasted with heart breaking, high phrases that left me in tears. I could feel my father’s presence in the doorway, between where Mitchell was playing in the living room and where I was in the kitchen.
My father was beaming.
One by one, our older children left for University. A year and a half ago, Mitchell completed his Science degree. Last March, he decided to follow a dream he had for many years to visit Australia. Without knowing anyone, he left on this big adventure and is currently turning newly met friends into family. This past fall, I was thinking how life would be this Christmas without Mitchell and one day, as I was busily cleaning the house, I spied his cello. A warm, brown elegant piece of wood, standing silently in our living room, like a sentinel observing all the hectic activity in our house.
I pass the cello dozens of times every day without giving it a thought but suddenly it called to me. Its quiet presence spoke volumes and I felt a deep loneliness for Mitchell. From the moment he was born, he was an easy baby and he grew into such a happy little boy. His big goal every day was to have a good time but that was often difficult with a mom who had other ideas. I pushed our kids (and often still do, habits are tough to break) to work hard, to be the best they can be. I’m realizing now that their best was just in “being” themselves.
Mitchell has been a good teacher!
The cello also called me to remember my father. The few memories I have of him are also fun loving. He just wanted to have a good time in life too. His smile is something I remember the most about him. It may be too late for me to “BE,” the best mom for our four older children, since they are now in their twenties but listening to the cello this fall has reminded me that creating our life’s opus takes a lifetime and I hope I’m not quite done yet.
There’s still lots of music in our house. Our four younger children have all followed in their older siblings footsteps. Our sixteen year old daughter, Grace, plays piano and our youngest daughters, Kathryn and Victoria, who are eight and are twins, play violin. Then, like an echo left by Mitchell, our youngest son William has chosen to play cello. He started playing four years ago, when he was six, and is quickly out growing his current cello. At his last lesson, his teacher asked me if we still had a full size cello in our house, as he’s almost ready for it.
The other day while the kids were practising their music, I was at the kitchen table dabbling with my writing. I heard some rustling coming from the living room and then a familiar greeting, from an old friend filled the air. It vibrated with a lingering, ringing note. Dropping my pen I went to investigate. William was seated with Mitchell’s big cello hugged close to his chest, the bow, gently resting on the strings, was getting ready for another stroke. Will smiled up at me and said, “I’m just seeing if it fits me yet.” I didn’t respond, I just nodded and smiled back. I could feel Dad in the room grinning too and when Mitchell hears this story, I know he will be glad to share his cello with his brother.
Because when the cello calls you have to listen.
~The End~
Dear family and friends, I hope you enjoyed my Christmas story this year and as the season of light arrives, you and your family have a joyous holiday. Before I close, I want to share a song I first heard years ago when we took our children to see this movie in the theatre. The music and lyrics are the PERFECT way to end this post. The song is from the movie, “The Chronicles of Narnia, Prince Caspian,” and is called, “The Call, (no need to say goodbye)” One of the phrases is, “I’ll come back when you call me,” and if you are ever missing anyone, or have lost anyone, I think those words will resonate with you, for all we have to do is remember, and our loved one is with us again.
Wasn’t that amazing!!!
A wonderful way to say, “Merry Christmas to all….to my sweet son Mitchell in Australia…I’m soooo proud of you!!!! and to remember my Dad…love you always….I’m your opus!
Until we meet again, may you be well, happy and peaceful.
Blessings from Hope (aka Lee)