( A Norman
Rockwell moment )
By Newcomb
March winds had arrived in February. Strong gusts randomly fanned the tall glass doors of St. JosephÕs Hospital. Smaller puffs carelessly scattered dried leaves on the carpet of the lobby waiting room. The lofty ceiling included a mezzanine floor and its open stairway. Brisk foot traffic up and down these stairs and up and down the main hall produced a street scene, indoors.
I seemed to be the only one to be waiting. I turned from the wide hall to take a comfortable seat by the windows and here, where the stairs, hall and I came together, was a harpist! ŌWhat a noisy place, who would listen, how futile.Ķ When seated I was behind the harp and facing the hall I had just left. I parked my walker and cane and began to wait. The woman at the harp was dressed in drab gray and the shapeless clothes draped over a lumpy body. Her frame is heavy enough to have warped the legs that support it.
She had been standing and now sat to rest on a folding stool. A cluster of supplies was by her side. Between sets, she would have a sip of water, ruffle music sheets and only once, put away money.
The harp was easier to hear than I had thought. She was running treble scales. I remembered hearing-tests and this sounded like the high end of one. Then, she tilted the instrument toward her to reach the bass. A generous and rich sound filled our space!
Her music stand was cut out to show the clefs as if she would read them as well as the music sheets of notes before her. (While I waited, I didnÕt hear one piece repeated.)
Busy people slowed and sometimes stopped in their tracks to listen to a measure or two. Many patients were forced to move slowly anyway! There would be a nod, always a smile. One time, a gift!
The couple was older, tall, thin and weathered. They stopped turned aside, looked at each other and nodded. The man took out paper money and the woman nodded approval. Hesitating a moment, he approached the harpist and extended his gift, She shook her head. There was confusion as their hands fluttered. She accepted the money with out looking at it. The money went into the clutter at her feet. When the couple had left and the music ended, she reached down to really look at her gift.
The harpist was of retirement age and was an unpaid volunteer, I am certain she could spend it well.
A Norman Rockwell moment took place and was gone again, before it could be captured, except in these words:
There were no people coming by, the harpist was now playing for me, unseen, behind her.
Tall and attractive, the couple stopped because their children were seeing their first Harp and liked the sound it was making. One child was in the fatherÕs arms. The mother pushed another in the stroller. There were four smiles and many hands reached out to the harpist.
With a glissando, the harpist segues to a childrenÕs song! The father and the child aloft clap together with one free hand each! The mother sways to the music, encouraging the children.
A man has seated himself near me and smiles and nods his head. We are sharing the same thought! Then I realize that we are in the picture too! The passers by are also seeing an old, old man with his cane, caught up in the moment and the younger generations around him.
The harpist is playing a canticle, Scarborough Fair. I struggle to find the old words.
(Orange County looks and sounds like Old England, with the plucked strings of that time put in place again this winter morning in 2005.)
I think of the Cratchett family visiting the hospital at Christmas and the laughing child in his fatherÕs arms is tiny Tim.
(The words were: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme)
It is lunchtime. The harp recital and my wait are ending together. Moving to the hallway, I pass close by the harpist. My intention is to speak my thanks. But, as we look at each- other, I see that her overly plain face has a rather grim, determined, expression. The harpist is working too hard to speak. Perhaps her fingers hurt, she may be stressed to read the small notes.
The beautiful music, that had reached out to so many this hour, has left the harpist untouched and perhaps, feeling un-rewarded.
Without my good-by, she has covered the harp, picked up her things and now is pushing it all before her on a dolly. The heavy hospital door opens automatically.
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No one takes the harpist's place. No one is laughing. I hear heels clicking up the metal stairs.
A windy gust opens the Hospital door. There is no one there.