The Whistler

 

A syncopated whistle floats through the foggy morning as I turn the corner at 31^st from Roosevelt. Marching up the block, I marvel at its rhythm. This is no tuneless whistle. The kind I usually hear on my neighborhood walks. Usually men, often at work, whistling away. No melody at all.

            Nope, this whistle is musical and joyous.

            The tune unmistakable: Scott Joplin’s “Entertainer”.

            Oh, I know this song well. One year in high school, I drove my family mad practicing this song over and over again on the piano for a recital. I had to memorize it. So, repetition was key to this. But also, I was obsessed with the song. Its melody. Its rhythm. Its charming repetitions.

            Today, when I hear the whistler’s version of it, I can’t help but grin. Someone else is charmed by Joplin’s tune too!

            Halfway up the block, I spy a man, short, stocky, a dark mop of hair, thick eyeglasses, walking down his driveway. Whistling. Ah-ha! Here’s the whistler.

            “Hello!” I hail him before he disappears behind the back gate.

            He stops. Turns toward me, smiling broadly. “Hello,” he answers, walking back toward me.

            “You were whistling Scott Joplin’s Entertainer,” I observe.

            He beams. “Yes, it is a very famous song.”

            “Yeah, I know it well. I used to play it on the piano.”

            He nods, starts making hand motions for an air guitar. “I try on the guitar. And the flute…”

            He’s in the street now, opening a bright red car’s door (I’m assuming it’s his!), and pulling out a tin whistle.

            He starts to play. But Joplin is hard. The tin whistle is limited. He laughs, “It is too hard for the flute.”

            “Yeah, I bet,” I agree, marveling at his willingness to just start performing for me out on the street in the foggy windy morning.

            He puts his lips to the whistle again and starts to play. A beautiful and lyrical piece of music floats up and out of the instrument. His eyes are closed. He is in the rapture of the music in moments. Then stops.

            “You know this song?”

            I don’t. It’s not Joplin. Or Bach. Or Chopin. But I don’t mention these non-possibilities. Instead, I lie: “It sounds familiar.”

            He grins again. “It is called ‘Always Love to You.’”

            “Ah….” I nod, “it’s beautiful.” And I think it is. Even though I suspect it’s movie music. But movie music has its place, doesn’t it? On the tin whistle. On a foggy Monday morning.

            “Thank you for the performance!” I exclaim, truly grateful for the interlude. I’ve been so worried about everything lately. The pandemic, of course. My work. My finances. Politics. Roe v Wade being overturned is thick in my brain. Heavy and sad. I don’t know what to do with this.

            Joplin helps.

            How couldn’t he? His music is full of life and joy and complexity.

            The Whistler stops his playing for a moment, “You are welcome,” he says.

            Then goes back to his instrument, playing again the “Always” tune. I march on up the street, whistling to myself.

            You know the melody. It’s a very famous one! I can’t get it out of my head for blocks as the clouds start to burn off, the sun filters down. A woman comes out of her house, tall and elegant, dressed in forest green slacks and a golden vest.

            I smile at her. She smiles back.

            I head down the street, whistling to myself, a very famous tune.

 

            The Entertanier, Joplin, Alexander Lioubimenko

Piano Talk

 

Dinu Lipatti

“Do you play piano?” I’ve hailed a wiry bespeckled man walking out of the green house. For the last two years, during my pandemic walks, I’ve passed this house on Downer Street, and it’s been anything but a downer! I’ve stopped in front of this house often to listen to Bach, Joplin, and Beethoven. What a treat!

            So, today, when I see someone coming out of the house, I have to ask!

            He pauses at the end of the walkway, eyeing me suspiciously. “I AM the Pianist!” he proclaims.

            Oh, I should have known he doesn’t just play the piano with the music I’ve heard coming out of his house. He is The Pianist!

            “I love your piano playing!” I gush.

            “Do you? It is just practicing. The same phrase over and over again,” he shrugs.

            “Yes, well, it still is a beautiful sound to walk past.”

            “Do you walk by here often?”

            “Yes, fairly often.”

            “I’m moving. I moved the piano out yesterday. I’m going to Yuba.” He waves up toward the hills, Wildcat Canyon direction. I think, is Wildcat Canyon called Yuba? Or isn’t there a Yuba up north on the way to Eureka? I seem to remember passing a sign driving up there on the way to my parents’ place when they lived up there.

            “Oh, that’s a big move,” I offer, not really sure if it is.

Downtown Yuba City

            “I am going to Montreal to play this summer. And I will direct the blah blah blah….” He begins in on his resume. I nod, enthusiastic to meet this pianist I’ve been overhearing for years.

            “That’s so cool. You sound like a real pianist.”

            He gives me a funny look, “My piano teacher, when I was a boy, was a student of Dinu Lipatti.”

            “OH MY GOD! You’re kidding! That’s amazing!”

            He grins, takes a longer look at me, “Ah, so you know piano?”

            “Yes, I do. A little.” Actually, it’s one of two subjects I know a lot about. That and American Literature.

            “How do you know?”

            “I play piano,” I offer.

            He leans in, intent now.

            “Not a performer though. I used to teach, but I’ve lost most of my students because of the Pandemic.”

            He nods, “Yes. Did you teach online?”

            “Yeah, but it was mostly a disaster.”

            Again, he nods, sympathetic. “I did too, but I am old school. I do not like these new pianists. This Yuju Wang with her Short Skirts!” He bends slightly to draw a line on his jeaned thigh.

            I don’t tell him that I like Yuju, both her playing and her short skirts! What would he think of me? Instead, I play it safe:

            “Right now, I’m obsessed with Alfred Brendel and his performances of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas.”

            “Brendel! Yes! He is magnificent. But for me, it is Claudio Arrau. He is the one. He is perfection. His Beethoven. His Chopin. But mostly, his Schubert. Do you know these?”

Claudio Arrau

            “I have listened to the Beethoven. I’ll check out the Schubert.”

            “Yes, you must.”

            I venture into what I assume will be safe territory. “And Horowitz. He’s…”

            “Horowitz?” He scoffs. Then shrugs. “He is okay. Well, sometimes I will give him that he can be playing a piece and of course, it is nice enough, but then all of a sudden, he plays a phrase and….” The Pianist pauses, shakes his head, “…and you think, what did he just do? Where did that come from?”

            “Yes, I know what you mean,” I agree. And I do. Listening to Brendel I am often stopped by his exquisite artistry.

            “What is your name?” he asks me now.

            “Carol.”

            “Franco.”

            “Nice to meet you,” I don’t shake his hand. Covid is still in the air. And while we’ve been chatting without masks on the last few minutes, we are outside, there is the bay breeze and we’re at least 6 feet apart. He leaning on the battered Volvo station wagon. Me standing in the middle of the quiet street.

            And more quiet now without his piano.

            “I will miss your piano playing,” I say.

            “Really?” But he likes the compliment. Even though I’m sure he’s used to them.

            “Yes. Good luck to you with your move.”

            “Thank you.”

            He stands for a moment, expecting more Piano Talk, but I have to go. Got a ton of things on my to do list. The first being practice Beethoven.

            The second, find a recording of Claudio Arrau playing Schubert. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1lJqD82R8k

 

Bad Dog!

 I heard all the barking before I see its source. I’m not paying too much attention. I’m on a block where dogs have never been a problem. In other words, no barking, no sightings, no warnings.

            I’d been telling my mom the night before how there were new warning signs on a fence that I knew was a barrier to dogs. They barked at me all the time. Ferocious and relentless, even when I passed, even when I crossed the street. The new signs said: “Beware of Dog. Not responsible for injury or death.”

            What? That’s pretty ominous, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t dog owners responsible for their dogs’ doings? If a dog kills someone, isn’t that the owner’s responsibility?

            Mom had narrated a harrowing story of her own.  A warning about fences not being as much of a barrier as you think. One morning, while she was on her usual early morning jog, she heard barking, but the barking culprit was behind a pretty substantial fence. Or so she thought. Cuz the next thing she knew, the dog had jumped over the fence and was coming after her. Scared for her life, she ran. (Good thing she was a runner!) The dog was closing in on her when she spotted a lady getting into her car: “Please! Let me get in your car! That dog is after me!” Fortunately, the lady let her in the car; mom slammed the door shut just in time as the dog barreled against the window.

            Close call!

            So, this morning, when I heard the barking, her story was fresh in my brain. Yet, I knew I wasn’t in the usual dog territory, so like I said, I wasn’t paying much attention.

            Then I saw the situation. And what unfolded happened very fast.

            A lithe and loose Pitbull was wandering on the sidewalk ahead of me, barking. A woman was coming out of the house, holding a baby, and yelling at the dog: “Get in here! Get back here! Bad dog! Bad boy!”

            The dog ignored her. Completely. At this point, it was just hanging out on the sidewalk, barking.

            Then another lady parked her Prius, and got out. I had seen her before. Garden Woman. I’d complimented her on her garden once, a rich and lush one with succulents, Lillies, wind chimes, and butterflies. She hadn’t been very receptive to my praise. I decided I wasn’t gonna talk to her again. She was cranky.

            Today, though, when she got out of the car, she made eye contact with me as the Pit continued to bark, making its way toward us.

            I had stopped my walking, planning to cross the street at this point, but when I turned around, there was a big black fluffy retriever hiding behind me. Where did he come from?
            “Hey, boy,” I cooed. Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t usually connect retrievers with attacking.

            The dog continued to slink behind me, brushing up against my legs, before darting away into the lush garden.

            “Was that your dog?” I asked Garden Woman.

            “Yes, he’s scared of that other dog!” She was miffed. I could tell.

            “Me too!” I said. “I think your dog wanted my protection though.”

            Meanwhile, the Pit had decided to run at me. I just froze. And before I knew it, he was next to me. Nosing my hand. He had a gold chain on. A wet nose. And stood about to my hip level. He had stopped barking. Was checking me out. Was I a threat? Prey?

            I stared down at him. Didn’t pet him. Just stood there.

            He took a final sniff and then turned and trotted back the way he had come. Honestly, I didn’t have time to react. Not even time to feel scared.

            Garden Lady actually smiled at me as I started across the street. “Thanks for protecting my dog.”

            “Sure,” I waved, not certain at how much protection I had been.

            “GET BACK HERE!” Baby Lady was still yelling at the Pit, who was still completely ignoring her. Lingering on the sidewalk, sniffing the dead grass. “BAAAD DOOG!!!”

            As I continued down the block, I thought about how what had just happened could have gone so differently. The Baby Lady had NO control over the Pit. What was she gonna do if the dog had attacked any of us? (Garden Lady, Black Dog, Me) Throw the baby on the lawn and run after the dog?

           I don’t think so.

            I’m glad this didn’t happen, but I have to wonder (and I often wonder this) how some people just should not be dog owners. I mean, dogs are dangerous and can kill people.

            Just look at the signs.

            Listen to the stories.

            And Beware of Dogs!