Walnuts And A Piano

Walnuts and a Piano

   

There's a rhythm to life. It's a musical quality that asks us to hear the cords and feel the vibration of sound that carry our emotions from the highs through the lows and back again. The recognition of this rhythm allows us to live in balance and to enjoy the music of life. 

This time of year always pulls at my heart and mind with sweet remembrances of the rhythm of childhood. Perhaps it's the blustery feel to the weather, the knowing that winter is soon to come, or a recognition of the gentle turn of the seasonal cycles. Certainly ancient cultures honored this time of year, the time of the thinning veils. The Celts honored it with ritual and the ceremonies of Samhain. This time of year creates an opening that allows for the fine tuning of my inner nature and with it, the ability to appreciate the song that became who I am.

Autumn is a time of preparation for the mysterious and sacred winter-time ahead. In California, where I grew up there wasn't a winter that was severe or dangerous, yet there was still something otherworldly about it.  It was a season of deeper inner silence.  During this time, as we made ready for the shorter days and longer, mysterious nights, we felt closer to something magical.  Of course, much of that magic revolved around that most sacred of children's holidays, Christmas.  Christmas required great preparation and just as the ancient people we had our own rituals that readied us the special time ahead.

One particular autumn shaped my life forever more. Our mom cooked good food that was as delicious as it was nutritious. In fall she prepared for the holidays by baking cookies - lots of them in a great variety of shapes, flavors and textures. Cookies are a treat that nourish us on so many levels. They bring joy to the taste buds, a lightness to the mind and a healing of the soul.

But the kind of baking our mom did required lots of ingredients and some were expensive and hard to come by in those days. So every October our family was packed into the car for an hour drive south of our home in San Jose to a place where the main north south road, highway 101 narrowed to 2 lanes and where towering black walnut trees lines the road. There we'd park the car as each of us were given burlap bags to fill with the green round pods that had dropped from the trees. These pods held the treasured meat that would in December become Russian tea cakes, one of Mom's specialties made only when the weather was cooler. I could almost taste them as I gathered my walnuts in my sack.

I knew the whole procedure by heart. I knew this movement of our life's musical movement well. When we got home my dad would lay 2x4s on the ground and nail them together to make a pen to hold the walnuts while the outer shells dried out in the sun for weeks. When they were ready to be hulled he took his large carpenter's hammer smashing the thick outer shell tossing them onto tin baking pans. Then each evening we'd all dig out the precious tasting walnut meat for the inevitable holiday baking to come. All of this lay in the depths of my psyche as we hunted for the round treasures hidden under the fallen leaves of the great old trees.

That particular year mom needed to use the restroom on our trek home from the walnuts. In that part of the world, on a blustery fall Sunday, there weren't too many options for her. My father found a seedy looking bathroom on the outside of a dilapidated filling station where the gas attendant barely looked up as he pumped gas into our station wagon.  When mom came back to the car she was carrying a big leather purse which she didn't have when she left. She and my dad held a muted conversation but I caught snippets of it. "Someone left their purse..." "I don't feel right leaving it..." "Would you trust..." 

I think there were more walnuts to be had but something had changed and we headed home. The bags of walnuts were piled in the backyard forgotten now as we gathered round as mom and dad opened the purse tentatively. My parents were honest hard-working folks so we could see they felt like sneaks just opening the bag to see if there was some id in it. Even before they'd opened it there was talk of placing ads in the personals to see if the owner could be found. Each article was removed and placed carefully on the kitchen table, some tissue, a wallet, a comb, a huge diamond ring. Even to a kid's eye, you could tell this was very valuable, And then the one thing they had hoped to find, an address book which identified the owner.

They immediately called the number in southern California. The son answered and as soon as Dad told him what they'd found he was jubilant. His parents had called a few hours before, devastated that his mother had lost her purse. They looked everywhere, drove miles back retracing their stops to no avail so were cutting their trip short and coming home. He had no way to reach them until they arrived home as it was well before the time of cell phones. Instead he told my father that the ring was his mother's wedding ring and very valuable. It seemed she usually took it off when in the car as her fingers got swollen when she sat for long periods of time.

Arrangements were made to return the purse and everything in it was packed with great care. The next day it was mailed, insured and sent to a woman we had never met. When it arrived, the lady called, thanking my parents for their honesty and for their kindness. My parents assured them it was no problem, and not to give it a  second thought. I could tell by the smiles on my parent's faces that their reward was the warmth that comes with bringing great joy to someone and in this case someone they would never meet. Then the incident was forgotten and we went back to our rhythm, the walnuts were laid in the sunshine to dry, children went to school, fathers to work and mom kept the home fires burning.

A few days later, a letter arrived in it was a check for $300, a small fortune in 1961. It was a small token of their gratitude from the lady and her husband. The ring had been in the family for a very long time and was irreplaceable. My parents called them saying they couldn't accept it as they had only done what anyone would have, but the lady insisted. She said that many would not have returned it and that they had the money so it would was a pleasure to thank them. It turned out that was the amount of cash the woman had in her wallet when it was lost but my parents had never even looked in the wallet.

Mom wanted to use the money to pay bills and maybe buy nice Christmas gifts, but dad was adamant. "You are going to get something for yourself; something that will make you happy." A few weeks later, a used upright piano arrived. My mother who had learned to play as a child sat down and was in her element.

That Christmas there was music, real music, not from the radio but from our mother's fingers and from her heart. And much like the home baked cookies the music was sweet and nourished us in unseen ways, body mind and spirit. The piano reset the rhythm in our household and the music in our lives. This fall just like every other fall, I think of walnuts and a piano and how that came to be such an indelible memory in my life.

 

Patricia Cockerill - October 2013

LEAVING AN IMPRESSION

Leaving an Impression  At 8:30 every morning he ambled past my window always wearing the same outfit -navy blue shorts, pockets bulging with dog treats, a white golf shirt, white sneakers with long white socks, a white baseball cap and oversized sunglasses. He was well-known throughout the neighborhood as "the guy with the dog biscuits" or "the guy who picked up the newspapers" or "the guy who carried in the trash-cans." He made an impression on us because he always wore a big smile and he knew everybody by first name. He always had a kind word or comment whenever he saw you. When the garbage men left the trash cans and lids in the middle of the street he picked up each one and walked it to the garage door. When the newspapers were tossed onto the driveways he'd pick them up and place them at the door. If you went for a walk and there were no newspapers in anyone's driveway you knew he'd already gone by. He knew who was traveling, who was ill, or who was visiting. He inquired if there was a strange car in your driveway for more days than it should have been. Yet, his "knowing" was never intrusive. Rather, it was a gentle caring about his neighbors and a genuine interest in all the people he met on his daily walks. But his most special affection was for all the dogs in our housing community. He knew every dog by name and they knew him. Dogs who never wanted to be petted by other than their owners would wait patiently or plant themselves on the sidewalk waiting for him to bring their doggie treats. My own dog would sit at his street corner waiting for him in the morning. When she had to be put on a special diet, he purchased the biscuits the vet required for her. Their daily ritual continued for several years until the day she died. On that day she was too weary to get up. But somehow her instincts told her he was coming down the street. She went to the door to be let out. In a final burst of energy she hurrieddown the walkway to see him and in retrospect, to say goodbye. She died a few hours after that. When he learned of her death he cried with us sharing the grief. I knew him by his daily walks, his kind acts, and his love of the neighborhood dogs. I knew he served the housing association through volunteer groups. I knew he was a veteran, but based on his youthful appearance assumed he served in Korea or Viet Nam. I knew his wife and knew he had an adult daughter. At 8:30 on a recent Wednesday morning he was walking ahead of me as I was riding my bike along the paved trails in our subdivision. I yelled out "Good morning, Robbie!" so as not to startle him. He stopped and waved as I pedaled past him. It was the last time I saw him alive. Thirty minutes later he was pronounced dead by paramedics after suffering a massive heart attack in the community clubhouse where he'd gone to lift weights. Looking back on the five years that our lives intersected I thought about all the times we'd spent talking about dogs and I asked myself, why I never asked him about his life. In his passing I learned so much about him. He was not in his early 70's as I'd assumed but rather was 84 years old. He was about to celebrate his 63rdwedding anniversary. He was a gifted musician playing the piano and organ. He traveled all over the world, living in many countries demanded of his job in the oil industry. There he made long-lasting friends as easily as he had done in our neighborhood. He'd made such an impression that letters from those friends still living in far-off lands filled the church's condolences box. But what stood out the most was how he befriended young people, encouraging them to be better than they were, to take responsibility, to go to college and to become good people. One young woman who followed his explicit guidance, a budding operatic marvel, sang his funeral service. A young man that he befriended 25 years earlier wrote a touching tribute about him and how much he owed to Robbie's counseling. It's said no one knows the day or the hour of our death. That's probably a good thing because it allows us to wake up greeting each day as a new beginning and giving us a fresh slate to write upon. Robbie's passing did that for me. I realized that this seemingly quiet man had actually left a huge impression on everyone he'd encountered during his lifetime. He didn't have a big pulpit to preach from, nor did he have a cause with a following. He simply cared about everyone he met and treated them kindly. And that can be contagious. Robbie's death has caused me to think about my life and how I conduct myself andto make some small changes. Now, I slow down on those bike rides, stopping to inquire about a neighbor's well-being, or to ask the questions like "Where do you call home?" "Do you have a family?" "How are you feeling today?" And yes, even sometimes I take a few moments to pick up the trash cans. I miss Robbie's physical presence as much as the dogs do. Sometimes I glance up from my computer and I catch a glimpse of him in his navy blue shorts and white baseball cap, his pockets bulging with dog treats as he ambles past my window. I know I'm seeing the impression he left on the streets of this retirement community just like the one he left in so many hearts. His daily routine created such an impression in people's lives that they remembered him by his random acts of kindness. His was a life well-lived.  Is there a better legacy to leave in this world than to know you touched lives this way?    SIDE NOTE: Two days ago while working in the garage with the door open I felt the unmistakable presence of Robbie ambling down the street.  The feeling was so powerful I turned around to look for him.  I was convinced he was standing in the driveway saying "Good morning, Jo."  Of course, he was not.  But his impression surely was as he continues to walk the neighborhood!  ++++++++++++++ Jo Mooy - September, 2011