I'm loving my new job. The combined music libraries of the symphony, youth symphony, ballet, and opera are being reorganized and I've been brought in to help with the project. I have specifically been tasked to the youth symphony, moving sheet music from old archive boxes to new archive boxes and relabeling them.
I am in awe of the papers that are passing through my hands -- some of them dating back to the 60's when the youth symphony was founded. (There are pieces in other parts of the library that predate the founding of the main symphony in the 1800's -- I'm hoping to get my hands on that collection at some point.) The sheets are embellished here and there with the pencil notes young musicians have made to accommodate various conductors interpretations of the pieces -- noting cues, dynamic changes, and inserted or emphasized rests. I am handling years of history, and who knows what musical careers some of the previous holders of this music have gone on to accomplish.
Many of the pieces brought back memories for me -- Smetana's Moldau has been my favorite piece of classical music since my 4th grade class went on a field trip to a concert the state symphony put on just for elementary students. I aided in murdering the William Tell Overture that same year by the all-county elementary orchestra as a first-year viola player. (My viola career came to an abrupt halt after only two years when my mother switched me to a private school with no music program.) And so much Sound of Music. That soundtrack and that movie are woven throughout my entire life like a thread through a tapestry.
The dearest recollection a piece evoked today was during a battle with several large boxes comprising an entire Shostakovich symphony. My hands and wrists are covered in paper cuts and I'm sporting three bandaids. (Wouldn't want to bleed on the music!) Wrestling with this symphony brought back memories of a blog entry that I wrote almost 15 years ago -- February of 2003 -- about a toddler having a tantrum and then mellowing out in a most bizarre way. In honor of Shostakovich, and my paper cuts, I present it to you now.
My life is strange. Granted, life with children is always strange in that crazy, wild, unpredictable, loud, chaotic way that children make life strange, but my life is strange in the quiet, subdued moments -- strange like scenes from surreal foreign films with softly lit backdrops of grey, overcast skies, and soothing baroque music wafting through the air.
My obstreperous middle child was in the midst of a typical 2 year old tantrum. He was in the kitchen laying on the floor gurgling out protests. "I don`t want it!! It`s STUPID!" As nothing was being forced on the child -- or even offered to the child -- I`ve absolutely no clue as to what IT could be. I made him a sandwich and got him a glass of milk, which he flatly refused mid-gurgle, preferring instead to lay on the floor and bemoan his lot in life.
Abruptly, he changed his mind. He stood up, picked up his sandwich and sippy cup, and requested that I "hold him to bed" which is his way of asking I carry him to my room for a nap.
This is where we pick up with the soft classical music and the muted light from the overcast sky through the window. He settled himself on my bed and put his finger to his lips to signal a hush. He lay meditatively, very deliberately chewing bits of sandwich, nosily smacking his lips while conducting an imaginary symphony with his one free hand and one chubby little leg waving in the air. I laid on my side, head propped on my arm watching this miniature Shostakovich in a none-too-clean t-shirt, diaper, and stained sock (he was only wearing one) as he smeared my white cotton pillowcases with Welch`s strawberry preserves.
The moment lasted until he`d chewed and swallowed his last bite of sandwich and drained the last drops of milk from his cup. The magic was over. He has returned to his tantrum and is acting sleepy. Perhaps he will nap soon.
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