Soundings

SOUNDINGS

I heard a crackling sound and thought briefly a branch was too heavy with peaches and was breaking. Then there was the distinct strum of a country song. Surprised, I held my breath and tried to catch the swift refrain. “And it goes on and on watching the river run; further and further from things that we've done, leaving them one by one. And we have just begun watching the river run, listening, learning and yearning. Run river run.”

The song had to be coming from Old Mr. Briar's room but how could that be? I looked over the next yard and up to see if he was out on his small deck.

I saw someone I didn't know at his window and realized with sickening certainty that the new neighbors had arrived. Old Man Briar had not come to say goodbye because, after all, the family was only shifting down to the beach and I would see them as often as ever. There would be no need for goodbyes. Still, the metallic brightness, the twang were like the popping of champagne at a bon voyage party signalling a goodbye fore me. I felt as though the Briars were sailing that morning for Katmandu without the rush of hugging and cries of, “Be sure to write,” such a final note had that simple river song.

What would my garden be without Mr. Briar's music?

The first time I heard his music was the week we moved in. On a foggy November day, when the children were sleeping fitfully with bronchitis, I had tiptoed outside to look at the autumn sky and feel the crisp sea wind. Tired and alone, I felt I had made another wrong turning and wondered how many wrong turnings I would make before I was ever able to live competently. I saw something pink at the back of the garden and ventured to see what the little beacon was. It was a wild rose protected by long neglected ivy. As I reached to touch it, there was a soft swirl of faint music seemingly above me in the mist; I stopped to listen. It was something familiar and ethereal in its tune.

“There is no one around,” I thought. “Everybody on the street works during the day.” I sat down on an overturned wheelbarrow. “It's Don Giovanni!” One of my dad's favorites. “My mind must be going with this helplessness and I am dredging up my childhood memories to keep the shreds together.” I thought of my father whistling calmly on the way to Damascus when we were stopped by the British who were checking the road for land mines. I was driven to distraction by his whistling; he always whistled Mozart when we were in danger and we always got through by the skin of our teeth. Later, the whistling took a short cut in my brain and came to mean, “Don't worry.”

A quick blast of voices made me look up and I saw an old man was opening a door of a small attic room perched on top of a tall cedar house past the Armato's bungalow. There was a narrow deck where he stood gazing at the fog banks and looking about the neighborhood as if he were spotting whales. I waited to see if he would see me. He did and he waved. Happily, I waved back and shouted even thought I knew it would wake the children, “That's Don Giovanni! One of my dad's favorites!” He waved again and walked on around the deck.

During the next weeks, I found out that he was Old Man Briar, as opposed to Middle Mr. Briar and Young Mr. Briar. I was told Old Man Briar was 87, deaf as a lamp post practically and a great source of irritation. The comments I heard varied in intensity but were in accord as to for or against. Because Middle Mr. Briar was a likable fellow and didn't want people complaining at him, Old Man Briar played his opera only during the day. I decided to write Old Man Briar a note and tell him how his music had made me feel at home, how it had comforted me through the bad bronchitis and that, although Mozart was my dad's favorite, I leaned more to lieder. After that there was always music when I went out in my yard, but no Mr. Briar on the deck.

He came one day with roses and spoke very formally. He asked me if I sang and I said, yes, and would he like to come in. I'd play the piano for him. He declined.

Every once in awhile, I would see him with his son in the car and wave. He never offered to lend a record or give me a ride to school when he saw me with an armload of music. He would just say, “Play well!” and even though it didn't matter, as the piano at school was half mute, I would play my best.

Last November, on a foggy crisp day, he was walking his dog as I was checking my mailbox which sits out by the road. He stopped to say hello and saw my eyes light up when I pulled out the mail.

“Something special have you, Mrs. Wilder?”

“Yes!” I said hurriedly.

“Well then, go out into your back yard and read it there.”

I was freezing but I said I would, just so I could get on with it.

The wind was strong and I had to pick up pages that were scattering. As I did, I heard the slow beginnings of Tristan and Isolde. Something special. He had not played that before. I looked up involuntarily and there was Old Mr. Briar smiling and waving. I waved back and he went inside leaving the door open. I must have spent an hour and a half listening and reading and then I came in to warm myself up and discovered I wasn't cold.

How has June come so soon? Halfheartedly, I pick some roses ostensibly to take to Mr. Briar the Elder all the while knowing he isn't there. I will give them to the new people and I will see what this newness will be.

Their front door is open. I hear the song filtered as if sung in a mountain tunnel. “Guess he'd rather be in Colorado. Guess he'd rather spend his time out where the sky looks like a pearl after a rain...”

I am angry and sad. I am hurt with the comings and goings, the centers not holding, the far flung friends. Is there such a place as being in Colorado? Can anything stay for just a little while? I turn away but someone is speaking. She is saying, “How sweet!” and “Won't you have a cup of coffee?” and “Are you the neighbor who is home all day?”

“Mostly. No thank you.” I reply, not mentioning my five mile walks.

“Mr. B. said you were the only one on the block home all day and you are hard of hearing. I'm so sorry but it is reassuring for us because Tom likes to practice with the window open up in the attic. Nobody seems to mind Cathy's guitar but Tom's French horn and his opera overtures drives them crazy.”

I pretend I haven't heard much of what she's explained and say quickly, “Nice to meet you! I have to be going. Play as loud as you want. It won't bother me." I will feign deafness whenever I see her. In the afternoons, I will take my letters out into the garden and think on comings and goings, of far away friends. Perhaps on a cold November day, Tom will play Tristan and Isolde and in between will be the newness of country strumming and Cathy singing, “Friends, I will remember you, think of you, pray for you. And when another day is through, I'll still be friends with you.”