In 1979,while working in the orchard pruning apple trees and sitting at the base of a tree taking a breather, I saw Gramps, the pianist's father, walking up the road beside the orchard to my right. He walked slowly and haltingly because he was breathless from an advanced lung cancer that was no longer amenable to treatment, but he was still in good spirits and mining all he could from the seams of his remaining life.
With the alteration of his gait and slowing of his steps we could have orchestrated with some form of music, the cadence of this piece. He had emerged from the kitchen door on the right of the cottage, closed it quietly, and seemingly had a location in mind. As I watched and thought about him and his life ebbing away after so many years I still saw spirit and desire. I knew he was going up the road for a smoke.
There was a flash of movement on the path on the left side of the cottage I suddenly saw. The sliding door had silently opened and closed and my fourteen year old daughter Ruth had emerged, ostensibly unnoticed,and quietly walked up the pathway to the left of the orchard, clearly on her way to have a forbidden smoke. She had spirit and desire and was going to try everything, childhood ebbing away.
As they proceeded apace, unknown to one another, and known to me in silence, I saw this as a drama, a point and counterpoint, interdependent harmonically yet independent in rhythm and contour. Three players engaged in the small rhythm of life.
With the alteration of his gait and slowing of his steps we could have orchestrated with some form of music, the cadence of this piece. He had emerged from the kitchen door on the right of the cottage, closed it quietly, and seemingly had a location in mind. As I watched and thought about him and his life ebbing away after so many years I still saw spirit and desire. I knew he was going up the road for a smoke.
There was a flash of movement on the path on the left side of the cottage I suddenly saw. The sliding door had silently opened and closed and my fourteen year old daughter Ruth had emerged, ostensibly unnoticed,and quietly walked up the pathway to the left of the orchard, clearly on her way to have a forbidden smoke. She had spirit and desire and was going to try everything, childhood ebbing away.
As they proceeded apace, unknown to one another, and known to me in silence, I saw this as a drama, a point and counterpoint, interdependent harmonically yet independent in rhythm and contour. Three players engaged in the small rhythm of life.
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