Insperation

INSPERATION

I‘m going to conjure an image that you may or may not have been exposed to in your lifetime. If you have, then it will rank high on the Richter scale. If not, then welcome to Catholicism. If you’ve gone to Catholic school, Church or catechism on Sunday or Wednesday afternoon you know what the figure of Christ looks like. Let me paint, here, for a moment. If you’re a believer you know that He was about six feet tall, sported a well trimmed beard, dressed in an open, white flowing robe with a tassel type tie dangling to just above His feet and The Bleeding Heart is surrounded by a band around the middle, glowing. His classic pose, as per clergy, was straight on looking you in the eye, hands outstretched, palms up in a gesture of peace. Got the picture? Now, consider how a young child might view the specter.That young child was me.

I’ve seen Him floating in a sky of blue, wispy clouds wafting about His shoulders. To His upper left and right an alabaster railing hovered in the clouds, upon which sat several angels dressed in transparent, gossamer white flowing cloth clinging to their heavenly bodies. Each has a bow and arrow, the bow slightly flexed arrows at the ready, aimed at you. To complete the picture, the railing boasts several flower urns, one at the side of each angel, all bursting with a floral arrangement of babies breath. How am I so sure? It was painted on the ceiling of the piano room. Yeah, the piano room. As an adult or maybe a young person over the age of ten, perhaps, the scene is very descriptive. Probably, as it was meant to be. Catholics see this simply as a depiction of the forgiving Christ, hands outstretched in welcome and understanding, bleeding heart flowing red with--blood, His blood, the blood He shed for your sins. A halo positioned directly above His head. Keep that image in mind while I tell you more about the music room on the second floor of the Montauk Ave three story. You may or may not believe all or any of it, but it’s your paintbrush, after all.

Room of Paradoxes

Confined in that same room was an elegant ebony black Steinway concert grand piano, the second largest piano in the world. (It ranks second only to that of the nine foot six inch concert Bosendorfer grand piano, boasting 96 keys instead of the standard 88.) It stood proudly, gleaming like a giant diamond, mirroring every image and nuance, as if to catalog and capture the ambiance. It was waiting. Waiting for the touch of its mistresses soft, delicate fingers to caress it’s keys, to once again extract the virtuous strains of immortal masters such as Chopin, Bach and Beethoven from its harp. It was waiting for aunt Jessie.

You see, aunt Jessie, discovered somewhere in time, was what is known as a child prodigy. Queen of the musical hill, if you will. Grandma Antoinette, the proud mother of this most unusually gifted girl child, bought the Steinway for her. Her ability to create happiness and joy in the hearts of millions of people.did not go unrewarded. At the delicate age of seventeen, she thrilled her audiences as a piano virtuoso and was acknowledged as such by the adoring masses as they gathered at theatres and cultural centers around the world to witness her prowess. She shared her knowledge of classical music and her mastery of the keyboard with them. It seemed, they couldn't’t get enough of her. Despite whirlwind tours and blistering rehearsal schedules, she occasionally found time to visit with family in America. The big three story in Brooklyn, NY was where she started her trek to greatness, at first practicing on an old upright then studying at the conservatory of music in Brooklyn, ultimately ascending to the heights of excellence in her class and, eventually, to stardom. Fame was hers--for a moment.

                                                  The Sounds of Music

I can remember the thunderous sounds of the Steinway reverberating through my bones, filling the house from top to bottom with wonderful classical music. The delicate strains of greatness flowed through vents, reaching every corner of this very large house with finely tuned notes and crafted tones that paid homage to the masters. She was perfection personified. Christ watched over her as she swiftly and learnedly commanded the Grand Steinway piano do her bidding, delivering outrageous harmony and beautiful versions of the classics of long ago. However, for all her prowess she was still a teenager and, deep within her soul, longed to be just a normal girl once again, willing to cast adoration aside. She would not live to have her wish granted.

I seem to remember that it was only in rare moments, when Grandma left the house to go shopping or to church, that aunt Jessie was able to express her innermost desires, even if just for a few, fleeting moments. When the occasion presented itself and the time was right, she’d switch to rhythmic versions of the then popular--Boogie Woogie beat. I’d be willing to bet that I was probably the only one to ever witness this musical wizard indulge her fantasies and transform her wish into reality. Deep down, her alter ego ruled. She would soar from her earthly bonds and fly into musical heaven. Keep in mind, most of the time she was strictly monitored, handled and managed by her prim and proper investors. In the midst of her fame, the powers decided two things, concurrently. First, to take her life. Second, to ordain that I, Lil’ Richey, the black sheep and most unlikely candidate of all, would carry the tradition of music into the future for her. It was during one of her world tours that she contracted consumption--and died. We know the disease today as--tuberculosis. She was twenty -seven years old. Now you know why no one else was allowed to play or touch the Steinway in any way or even be in the room with it unless one of two things occurred: you were dead (you’ll read more about this aspect of the room shortly) or you were a child not older then five or so and it was Christmas eve. You see, it was a shrine to Aunt Jessie. My secret, however, was safe. The room of the dead could not speak. It knew of me and I knew some of the secrets it held. Read on.

                                                         The Spy

I don't recall ever physically touching aunt Jessie. I wonder why? You see, unbeknownst to her, I used to sneak into Grandmas bedroom next to the piano room and listen to the enchanting sounds of the Steinway as she swept its keys. Laying on my little kid stomach , I could peek through a crack between the giant, white sliding doors. My heart pounded within me for fear of detection, while her music filled my head, my ears, my heart --my very soul. I was mesmerized by it. Remember, too, that all I could see through the tiny slit in the doors were her shoes on the pedals of the behemoth piano as she stepped on them, at will. I was simply enchanted by the awesome sounds, the crescendos, the swift runs up and down the keyboard as she delicately plied her trade. Crunched up on the floor, I held my breath, one wide eye open, glued to that crack, listening, wishing that it were me playing instead.

                                          An Encounter With Greatness

At that moment in time, the enormity of my encounter with greatness never crossed my mind. All I know is that what ever talent I might possess in the here and now certainly must have come to me through osmosis from Aunt Jessie. Let me make mention of a gift, of sorts. I’ve come to believe over the years that it was, in fact, her gift to my future, an unwritten exchange of destinies, if you will. I hid and watched her for years. When circumstances permitted and no one was around, I quietly made my way into the forbidden room attempting to emulate her, reaching for the keys with my little kid fingers, straining my little kid brain to remember the sounds I had heard play. As a reminder, remember that to this day I have no memory of what she looked like. Not a hint, as hard as that is to believe. Only her feet and music were to remain indelible in the archives of my mind. Ludicrous, to be sure, but with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and strangers, (to me, anyway,) that passed through the portals of that most wonderful house of memories, I was never able to connect her face with the music. You see, she died before I was six. 

I've decided that I am the clone of the musical manifestations of Aunt Jessie, the product of a mistress of the keys. I feel it deep in my bones. In retrospect, I don’t think she knew I was hiding in the bedroom just inches away. As I’ve mentioned, we never actually touched. I was just Eleanor’s kid. One day, I realized the music had stopped. I waited--listening. After a while, I started praying. For naught. My waiting and prayers were all in vain because as it turned out, she would never play again. The sounds of her music would be stilled forever--no more classical music, no more piano sounds--no more Boogie Woogie-- no more-- Aunt Jessie. Still, I waited. (It was years before I was told of her death.) Tradition, you know. How sad.

                                                  Room Of The Dead

One day, soon after the music stopped, and shortly before Christmas Eve, I remember crying aunts, uncles and grown ups I didn’t recognize, (once again,) lining the hallway outside aunt Jessie’s piano room. They were all dressed in black suits, ties and dresses. From the confines of my hiding place three quarters of the way up the stairs leading to the third floor, peeking between the uprights in the banister, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why they were all parading into the piano room and emerging from grandmas bedroom door wailing and crying and filing down the stairs to the first floor. All I knew for sure was that no one was ever allowed in there. One more time, tradition forbade anyone from telling me, until many years later, that little kids like me, were not to be told that the room of paradoxes was, in fact, also used ---to view the dead. (An Italian custom?)

Aunt Jessie was dressed in white silk go-to-church clothes. She lay on the couch in front of the Steinway, eyes closed , hands clasped upon her chest, tiny black rosary beads tightly clutched in her fingers. From His perch, on high in the ceiling, Christ watched over her. You're probably wondering at this point how I knew all this if I wasn’t allowed in the room, right? You’ve also probably guessed by now that my curiosity knew no bounds. I simply waited until everyone was down stairs on the first floor eating, talking or crying. It was no trick to heed that curiosity and sneak into grandmas room, pry open the sliding doors and peek into the piano room--aka room of the dead. The rest, as they say, is history. The sight will never leave my memory. I had no way of knowing that the person sleeping on the couch was aunt Jessie ---until I saw her shoes. They were aunt Jessie's. I looked at her hands clutching the black rosary beads. Here in the room of paradoxes, I finally met the mistress of the Steinway. Tears whelled into my kid eyes. I whispered, "I love you, Aunt Jessie. Good bye." I somehow knew that when she awakened from her sleep, -and she would-, (Catholicism, remember!) He would take her by the hand and lead her through the shadow of the valley of death, were she would fear no evil. "Amen" I said slently and, eyes on the floor in front of me, I shuffled from the room.

                                                          The Box

A couple of days later, once again a line of people streamed through the piano room weeping through whispered prayer as they filed past aunt Jessie for the last time. Everyone had tears in their eyes--some were sobbing as they left the house through the second floor entrance door and down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. From my secreted position behind the French doors on the porch, I watched in silence as two people in black came into the room, gently picked aunt Jessie up and placed her in a box on the floor next to the couch and stepped aside. Then the uncles came into the room, made the sign of the cross as they bid their sister goodbye and closed the cover. Standing on both sides, they lifted it gently onto their shoulders and quietly left the room. I scrambled up onto the couch and watched out the window as they carried aunt Jessie's box down those same concrete steps to the sidewalk below and headed in the direction of Atlantic Avenue. Big black cars lined the street as far as I could see. Some had flowers in them. Most had people in them. There was one, way up the block in front of the rest of them that had its rear door wide open. People stood on stoops and curbs on both sides of the street as the uncles carried aunt Jessie’s box toward the car with the open door. People were crying, touching it, putting flowers and rosary beads on it as it passed them. I heard some say-goodbye-God bless -we love you. I think she was their hero. The uncles slid aunt Jessies box into the car and closed the door. I heard the word--"Amen" -- ripple through the crowd standing in the overcast street.

                                                           The Legacy

Years later, tradition finally kicked in and I was told what I had already figured out for myself-- that aunt Jessie had lay in state on the coach for three days in the piano room. Guess my secret was safe. For a very long time after that the house of God, aka room of the dead was permanently off limits. As time passed, the realization that she would never return, hit me ---strongly. I became depressed and unsettled. I tried imagining her at the piano. I could hear her playing it. Her music saturated my brain. As days turned into weeks, then months, her presence gradually faded. Till this day I feel a sadness, even as I write the account of my memory of her for you. She left and that was that. Some time after Grandma died, I mustered the courage to find my way back to the Steinway, no longer in secret, however, now that the guardian of the shrine was gone. Although I felt an emptiness, I could still feel the security and warmth of aunt Jessie’s aura as I did all I could to recreate the sounds I connected with her, in my head. I wasn’t Aunt Jessie--to be sure. I was only me, Lil’ Richie. No training or lessons or money to replicate her, just a wish that I could, coupled with blind ambition. I simply played it by ear. Perhaps I had the gift--- after all. Of course, without formal training, I’d never be able to do the classics justice and certainly not aunt Jessie. I simply took the easy way out-- you know, the shortest distance between two points and learned as many of the standards of the day as I could and only the commercial parts of some of the classics--by ear. So be it.

And so, the music I play now a days is reminiscent of the time of young struggle and determination. Nothing fancy, mind you, nothing real complicated. I just fill the air with once upon a time memories I had of nice, pleasant sounds. Love songs, ballads, easy dance compositions of the big band era, sprinkled liberally with the Mr. Rick the Piano Man touch. Until they prepare my box, I'll share my destiny, my memories, my music and my legacy with my peers, for their enjoyment. These days, I get paid by the directors of musical programs, activities and entertainment to do what I love to do most of all--play the piano. ( I’d do it for free!) In quiet moments, I sometimes allow my mind to wander back to the days of the Steinway and the piano room of old. Tears fill my eyes. Thank you, Aunt Jessie--for allowing me to share the gift of music and --your musical memory. Most people don’t know about you, -----but they do now. Amen.