Small worlds

Among my favorite stories are the ones that show how small the world really is. You know the ones where you marvel that someone you know knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows you.

Last month my friend Linda emailed me to say that a friend of hers named Nancy was executor of an estate. Linda, a fellow Celtic music lover who I first met a couple of years ago at a local library through another friend, was contacted by Nancy because there were several musical instruments and accessories available including a harp. Linda, in turn, contacted me because the inventory also included a bodhran and she knows my life has become delightfully and demonically possessed by this Irish drum. Did I want another?

I said I’d need to see it, feel it and play it first before committing to another one. Meanwhile, I had my eye on another item: a piano bench. I had been in the market for one for my keyboard. Lacking a proper bench or stool had been my sad excuse for not playing. 

We agreed on a time to meet Nancy at the house and Linda sent me the address and directions.

My heart dropped as I read the last part of the email: “1st driveway on right. Big brown house with 2 car garage.”

I knew that house. It was the home of my friend, Judy, who had passed away in August. (More proof of the world’s smallness: When I met Nancy, we realized that she was friends of a neighbor of mine and that we had actually met briefly when she was walking the neighbor’s dog and I was walking Fergus.)

Back to Judy.

Judy was the most amazing person and incredible pianist. She started playing piano at age 6 and unlike some of us, she stuck with it, even studying under famed Hungarian-born pianist Lili Kraus. Judy was also co-founder of a local group Martin and I used to sing with. 

In the summer/fall of 2016 Judy had been in the same nursing home as Martin. She was on the rehab side, recovering from surgery. The facility was a big believer in music therapy, providing regular evening concerts for listening and singing along. Martin was usually fast asleep by the time the concerts started so Judy would be my date. Together, we’d get our Judy Garland on and belt out tunes as we are doing in the accompanying photo which popped up last month as a Facebook memory from September 2016. 

Judy was also my piano teacher. I had learned to play as a child and over the years I had worked with numerous teachers in hopes of getting my pianny groove back with no success. Judy came the closest as her love of piano was contagious. What was best, though, about our lessons had nothing to do with piano. We would talk and talk, well past the hour-long class. Sometimes I brought dinner. Sometimes I brought dessert. Sometimes we never touched the piano at all and would just sit and chat. Judy’s Texas twang never surrendered to the r-less sounds of New England.

We would talk about music and our travels. We would talk about our dogs. Her Steffi and my Fergus. We would talk about our husbands. Her John. My Martin. Both gone. Both missed. She had known Martin. I had never met John but once Judy got to talking, you couldn’t help but know and love John.

I did not take the bodhran but I did buy the piano bench and several music books that I had played during my lessons. I will treasure them and think of Judy every time I play.

And I will play, Judy.