But Just Right

My mom was a professional violinist, and it always seemed, furiously practicing. Her fingers continually drummed even silently, practicing her repertoire, pieces she already knew and those she was engraving in her heart. She only ever read the Chicago Daily News, devouring it like the gospel itself, delivered on our driveway every afternoon.

Dad was a quintessential research scientist, crazy bushy eyebrows and all.  Even when he was home, well, he was not really there.  To him, reading was a waste of time. Why read when you could be inventing something?

My grandmother lived out my childhood with me.  She occupied a small first floor bedroom, busily keeping house for our family of six, including my two oblivious parents.

Every night, she pulled herself up the stairs with her arthritic knees to put me to bed with the story of the three bears.  It may have been the only story she knew by heart.  No book.  No pictures. Just the words. Just her raspy alto voice. Just the story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She didn’t talk about Goldilocks with beautiful long blond ringlets.  But she narrated the story of a little girl with unruly hair who wandered into a house looking for a place where she would fit in, a bowl just the right size, a comfy chair in a quiet room, being tucked gently into bed, no matter the chaos in the rest of the house. The story became a liturgy of memorized words and measured breaths. She sat sidesaddle on the edge of the bed, her soft warm leg leaning against mine.

I never knew whether the story was describing her life or mine.

I was not the curly-haired violin prodigy my mother wanted me to be, possessing legendary talent that compelled people to rise to their feet.  When I was old enough to read myself, I hid library books with a flashlight under my bed. Mom threatened to take them away.  “You’re going to ruin your eyes.”  “You could be practicing!” I was not just wasting time, but wasting my life. 

My three brothers pursued their own paths of giftedness, as one interest led yet to another. The house was a mess.  Mom commandeered the living room, her music piled high in stacks on the back of the piano and cups of cold forgotten coffee scattered everywhere like clues to a mystery.  My dad secluded himself in his laboratory at work, rarely realizing when it was time to go home. 

Dad thought in numbers and formulas.  All that mattered to Mom was notes.  For me, it was words. Dad loved his laboratory. Mom dreamed of Carnegie Hall.  I couldn’t wait to go to the library.  Three lives.  Three languages.

My grandmother saw our family's story being worked out page by page, and chapters unfolding season by season. And she understood me standing bewildered in the midst of it. The bears’ lives seemed so normal.  Quaker oatmeal in morning bowls.  A company of chairs in a book-lined living room. Soft beds with comforters.  And oh, how about a daily walk together in the woods?

Is that how other people lived?

I was never afraid of those ferocious bears.  Instead, they were a comfort to me, appearing in a story told faithfully every night. And always with a happy ending. Because in my heart, the little girl got to stay.