A screech from my 1950s telephone rouses me from deep concentration. Today is a day of beginnings. 

I take a cardboard box from the shelf behind my desk and flip off the lid. Inside is a plethora of antique pens and replicas of instruments used by writers of yesterday - I hesitate. There was a time when I would have wielded one of these, or just opted for a freshly sharpened No 2 pencil to shape my reverie - but today is different. And while my Parker comforts the would-be writer in me, it's this tragic Logitech that will ultimately type out my words. I've had to face it, plastic's just plain faster, not to mention virtually-effective.

I stare out the window as a friend chats with me across the line, picking at the old sticker on my phone:

POLIZEI - FEUERWEHR - SANITAET

The number used to be a six digit one with no prefix, and like my antique friends I must leave it behind for now. I hang up and return to the screen; this is the moment I've waited for. How many articles have I written in my lifetime and saved in some random folder on my computer? A bazillion? But now, when someone is actually waiting for one...

There is no romance in the presence; there is nothing glorious. That comes once the work is done. So I struggle to shed the cloak of reverie from my mind and clear it out like so many busy housekeepers. 

This is the moment of truth. And so I begin.

 

The thing about you is that you've got all that frigid snow piled on top of your head; it doesn't do you any good, you know. Underneath, you are all color and shape and form; underneath you wield the power to stand tall and strong just by relying on who you already are.

Why do you call your ragged edges flaws? Such a word. 

 The mirror on my wall is very wise.

 

It was high time for a party - what with spring on the way.

When we moved last December, there was so much work to do in so little time that my world very nearly spun out of control - everything got neglected. Not only did I still have 10+ hours of painting to do, I had to sift through and pack eighteen years of belongings for six people, clean a newly renovated house, and scrub down the former apartment. All this in about two weeks' time. I hardly ate and I hardly slept, and those extra two or three kilos that had been hanging on to my behind melted away (I am definitely not complaining about that).

Every morning I wondered how I would get things done plus cook for and tend to four kids, not to mention hold a job; I could have been a case study in stress management. I felt alone, and a little hopeless since I knew there was no way in * that I was going to get it all done. And then...

...every day or so

...a phone call.

"I have a few hours to give you on Monday, is there something you need done?"

And another, and another. Every day there were strong, efficient lady-hands to help me along the way. I couldn't believe it, truth be told, and wondered why they would bother helping me when they had plenty of things to do themselves. I was moved; but also exhausted so I always said yes. Yes, please come. That became my mantra, and all I had to give back was simple gratitude, which at that time seemed vastly inadequate.

My 84 year old mother-in-law came to clean the old kitchen. I politely urged her to reconsider, inwardly acknowledging that as housekeepers go, she cleans for two. I knew I needed her, but urged her to stay home and rest at her age. She shook her head and shooed my words away with her hand, "I'm perfectly healthy and strong. If I get to the point where I need meds to continue, I promise I'll slow down." There are so many things wrong with this picture!

But in the end the truth is very simple: women know how to get the job done, and they do not rest until it is.

So all day Sunday I baked. And early Monday morning, as the freezing air crept up the windows and a fire crackled in the fireplace to chase it away, I prepared the morning feast. And then they came!

My deepest gratitude.

p.s. the artist asks, "why am I not invited to the party?"  

Did you help me paint? Pack? Clean? Could you help me move boxes with your pianist arms?? 

"Yes, yes! I helped you, darling! I helped your morale with all my happy messages!" 

And so he did. :)

Minutes before the recital, we were in the green room waiting while he kept his fingers and arms warm playing on a regular piano. By this time he was in a world all his own, fright and elation dancing in his eyes like drops of rain on water. I went in search of a vending machine for the bottled water we forgot to bring along. "Do you have any Euro, darling?" Drat. I just used my last one on a key chain for my daughter. I rummage through my purse, I rummage through his. I check his coat pockets, pants pockets, and finally find a single one clanging around at the bottom of my briefcase. 

The long halls draping La Fenice seem labyrinthian now, and I locate a very well-stocked machine in a most unusual place. I drop in my Euro and bring the bottle back to my artist. On the piano is a banana. This is the food of the music gods - bottled water and a banana. Don't be fooled - that's all you need to be world-class.

At five minutes to eight, the usher came to call us.

"No, darling, I think I won't play tonight," he says as his fingers continue to string out notes. "Please be so kind as to inform the guests that I won't be playing. Oh! You can play! Just play that little bit of Mozart I taught you. Don't you remember? Da-da-da-da-da-da----da-. Remember? Just go play -- you. Thank you, darling."

This is the kind of thing that happens two minutes before the brilliant come on stage. I gently wrap my fingers around his arm (you can't pull on the arms of pianists like you do your kids ... this makes things more challenging). I push him gently from behind. The usher watches on in amusement. We nearly force him to the door.

The clock struck 8:00.

"Darling... I need you to turn my pages. In fact, I need you to manage my scores between pieces. As I speak to the audience, you find the next piece and get it ready for me, ok? Thank you, darling."

I don't know which pieces are in which book! What are you talking about! How will I find them? It's a little late to be telling me this, don't you think?

He motioned to the usher to bring a program while a room full of people waited for the recital to begin, scribbling "Blue book, page 3" - "Yellow book, page ?" beside each piece. I could feel the blood draining from my face - visualizing myself picking the wrong one, losing my place and not turning the page on time (this is million-mile-a-minute playing), or worse, dropping the book on his fingers.

He entered the great hall as I stood by the door, primed to take my place beside him at just the right time. My face must have been a nice shade of sheet white, for two lady ushers came beside me, muttering Italian words of encouragement as only women can, soothing in a way that is common to every female alive.

And then it began. And when it begins, well, I have no words for what happens then. Faster than the speed of light he plays - my eyes follow the notes, holding on to each one for dear life as if I'm being thrown off a cliff. Do - not - lose - your - place - Allison! There is no room for distraction. If I lose my place, well, there's no elegant way to say it - I'm screwed. I mean, what other words could I possibly say? As the first piece rolled to a breathtaking end, as he bent over his hands in a final gesture of musical intent, his eyes met mine for a brief second. A smile. And then he was standing before his audience again. 

La Fenice is that memory to me. It is not Vivaldi or the great mecca of operatic culture. It is not history or elegance or prestige. It is the moment his eyes met mine; the moment a smile burst from his soul. Bliss.

I did not pass through the green door - but I did enter across the way.

Gran Teatro La Fenice is one of the most famous theaters in Europe - constructed at the very heart of Italian Baroque music. 

We entered the doors and ascended the lavish staircase. I felt my artist take hold of my coat sleeve as he paused halfway up. "I can't play here - it's the FENICE and that's my name on the playbill!"

Having four kids is an asset to me in this line of work - you learn how to power through the impossible.

"Rubbish! Of course you can, and will! Oh, looky at all the gold!"

I am a lucky manager for my pianist is darling in the extreme, and easy to encourage. I took his coat and scores in my hands as he mounted the stage in the Sala Appolinee to practice. I sat down and listened as the spirits of Vivaldi and Bach entered the room and took their places along the upper banister, waiting to hear how he would interpret their timeless notes. He struck just one, and the tears began to fall.

These are my favorite moments with him. I sit, I snap a few pictures, I walk the room and observe. Sometimes I will catch his eye and feel the very soul of him - a soul which is most evident when he plays.

 

Growing up a simple girl in Los Angeles, never did I dream that I would be there, in that place, on that day. Come to think of it, I did not think I would be in this place, on this day, either.

In Venice there was a door.

It faced Teatro La Fenice directly and creeped me out deliciously. Will you not join me inside?

Little hands build Snow Family before Spring decides to stay.