To Give Hope – Part 3

Good morning, FFFFs,

It's a sunny morning here. But it's cold. Only 21º at the moment. We had lovely weather earlier this week in the 60s, but then it rained and a cold front blew in from the north. The leaves are really falling from the trees and it won't be long before our yard is a carpet of leaves ready to be raked up.

This week has been crazy! Of course I have to play "catch-up" on Monday. Then I went to bed early Monday night because I had to be up at 4:30 the next morning.

I worked as an election judge on Tuesday. There was only one city thing on the ballot, but more people came out than we thought. That was nice. But of course I didn't get home until 9 PM.

Wednesday I had to play catch-up again. Only this time it was harder because I was tired. And it was cloudy. What is it about clouds and tired that make you not get much done? And Wednesday evening I had to go to church to practice music.

Yesterday I had writing classes. That was strange since I usually do it on Tuesdays. And I was missing one student who couldn't make it which meant that one class only had 1 student so I had to scramble to fill our time since I wasn't expecting that. In the late afternoon the grandkids all came over. They didn't leave until quarter till nine.

And today . . . Well, I need to clean house, send emails about play practice, take care of things, take care of other things, work on my Christmas Collection books that need editing, practice the violin, and maybe I can write. We'll see.

How was your week?

This is the final part of this story. What should I post next? I have two choices for you: (1.) the first part of an 8 week story (it would have to skip December and start again in January) or (2.) re-post a Thanksgiving story from a few years ago. Which do you want?

To Give Hope

Part 3

    The concert hall was packed, much to Clara’s astonishment. She hadn’t expected so many people to come to listen to the Quattuor Amicis String Quartet. Yes, she knew they were good. They had just come back from a world tour where they had been lauded for their aesthetic performances before packed houses, and their acclaim was touted in musical circles and magazines. But to Clara, the Quattuor Amicis Quartet was just Grandpa’s quartet. He and his friends had established it long before Clara was even born, and she had sat in on practices, had eaten many dinners with the other players, and considered them all almost like extra grandpas.

    Now, sitting in the front row, her stomach gave a queer quiver. Pressing her hands over it, she bit the inside of her lip and hoped she wouldn’t get sick.

    “I told you to eat your supper,” her dad leaned over and teased in low tones.

    Clara managed nervous chuckle and smoothed out an invisible wrinkle in her dark cranberry formal. Supper had been the last thing she wanted that evening. “Maybe I should have stayed at home,” she whispered. “I’ve never been this nervous in my life!”

    Mrs. Stillman dug in her purse and pulled out a peppermint. Handing it to her daughter, she instructed, “Suck on this and think of the music.”

    “That’s my problem!” Clara took the candy. “I can’t help thinking about it. What if it doesn’t sound good? What if I messed something up?”

    “Hey, Grandpa has already told you it was great, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Stillman leaned around her husband and looked at Clara. “It’s not like they just saw the music tonight.”

    “Yeah, but what if Grandpa just said the music was good because I composed it.”

    Mr. Stillman let out a sniff. “If your grandpa says it’s good. It is. When it comes to music, it doesn’t matter who wrote it or arranged it, if it’s not good–and I mean really good–he’ll say so. Now relax and enjoy the night.”

    Clara sat back in her plush chair and sucked on the candy, trying not to think about the fact that tonight was the debut for her song.

    As the concert got underway, she relaxed and let the music of Mozart and Bach calm her nerves. Her song wouldn’t be until the very end.

    Intermission brought all the butterflies back to her stomach, and she whispered to her dad, “I think I might be sick.”

    “You are not. And you are not going to be. Grandpa has played your songs before, and you can close your eyes and pretend his quartet is playing at home.” He patted her knee and smiled to ease the bluntness of his words.

    When the music began again, Clara couldn’t concentrate. She fiddled with her program until her father reached over and took it. Then she sat and polished her fingernails with the belt of her dress and counted pleats on the curtains behind the musicians. Applause startled her, and she caught her breath.

    This was it. They were going to play it. Her song. The one they commissioned her to write. Her mouth felt like cotton, her heart thudded against her ribs, and she wanted nothing more than to hide. If she was only in the wings and could pace the floor. Or if Grandpa’s quartet had been able to reach town yesterday like planned; then they could have played it for her ahead of time. But their flight had been delayed. She hadn’t even gotten to say hello before the concert.

    “Breathe, Clara,” Her dad murmured in her ear.

    The first low notes on the viola started. They were sad and slow. The cello added its mournful tones to the music, and Clara felt again the sadness of that afternoon. But as the song progressed, hope came. It came in the higher birdlike twitter on the violins and in the slow crescendo of the sunrise on the viola. It was heard in the crashing waves of the cello and in the tender bits of old hymns tucked away among the other notes. It came steadily and grew stronger. Light. Hope. Joy.

    Clara could breathe freely again.

    The song ended with the soft almost breathless whisper of the wind in the trees which gradually died away on the air. Then silence.

    Not a sound could be heard in the vast concert hall. Then from somewhere the applause started. It filled the hall, rang from the balcony, and echoed across the stage. People were on their feet, but Clara remained rooted in her chair. She hardly noticed when the thunderous noise ceased, and the first violinist spoke into the microphone telling about her piece. She didn’t hear him inviting her up to the stage with them. If her dad hadn’t led her to the stairs, helped her up them, and walked by her side to join the Quattuor Amicis String Quartet, she would never have made it.

    “It was perfect, Clara,” Grandpa whispered as he hugged her before the cheering audience. “It was what we wanted–something to give hope.”

Did you like the ending to this story?

What should I post next week?

Was your week crazy or normal?