The wind whispered through the long grass, blowing it gently into a lullaby of soft sounds. The grass rustled and the lake stirred as the setting sun dripped down the sky and below the stretch of trees that marked the horizon. The stains it left were stunning. Pinks and oranges smeared across the sky. They dripped lazily down the great sky, leaving behind a vast carpet of deep blue, intense and enveloping. As a myriad of stars became visible and bewitching with their bright twinkles, a little girl walked down the pathway to the dock. She pulled her hair back from her face and let the wind lift up the ends of it and toss it playfully. She was a very small girl, about five years old or so, with long red hair and freckles dotting her face. She had green eyes that shone like the tops of lighthouses, beckoning and beaming with a welcoming glow. Only today her eyes had lost their glow and the color in them had been washed away by tears. She sat on the edge of the dock and dipped her toes through the clear water. She looked up at the sky and watched the last rosy finger of the sunset disappear under the tall pine trees. She sighed heavily. It figured. Things were always disappearing before she got to them. Like the horse that she had wanted to ride at Holiday Acres, up the highway. Her mother had finally consented to the idea, and, grinning, the little girl had skipped up to the stables. The rustic smell of horses had filled her nose, tickling it with this new aroma of hay and wet hair. She rushed up to the large horse that stood tall above her, grinding hay between his strong jaws. He was handsome, brown dotted with white spots along his rump, as though some careless artist had waved a paintbrush over him, leaving him speckled. Then a young woman, flushed with heat and excitement, grabbed the horse’s halter and led him out of the ring. The little girl watched and saw another little girl, rosy with excitement and delight at her first horse ride, get lifted up and patted gently on the back; she was settled into the saddle. The horse tossed its head haughtily, though one could tell it was really his pleasure to be trotting off into the wooded trails with the little girl on his back, bobbing up and down and shrieking happily with each bump. The little girl sat on the dock and dipped her toes into the water. She slowly kicked them back and forth, back and forth, gently easing them into the warm lake as she contemplated it all. The other little girl probably wanted to ride the horse as much as she did, if not more, and was probably aching to for a while, just as she had. And suddenly, it didn’t matter, missing out on the horseback ride, for another little girl’s terrible want and longing had been fulfilled. The little girl sat back and thought some more. She was usually not very thoughtful; she was often too playful to think too much. But now, as the sun’s light sank out of view and the stars crept into the night sky, she thought about everything. Why was it that things disappeared before she got to them? Why did the sun set at night? Why were the stars scattered about the sky? Why did we have to wait until morning for the sun to smile again? She rushed up to the large horse that stood tall above her, grinding hay between his strong jaws And suddenly, all her thoughts were about waiting. Waiting for all the stars to twinkle, waiting for the pearly disk of the moon, waiting for the sun to rise up once more. Waiting for her mother to come home from her business trip in Milwaukee. Waiting for her chance to do something that usually disappeared before she reached it. Why did they have to wait? She thought hard about it, and unconsciously her mouth twisted into a little pout of concentration. Why did they have to wait? Waiting was not a thing, or an action, it was a state of being, she decided. A dangerous state of being. It was a time when people could become enveloped in self-pity, shrivel into a ball of nothingness. It was a time when doubt and deception could easily take control of the minds of people who were scared and alone because they were waiting, just waiting, for someone to come, or someone to go, or someone to stop and give them a hand because they needed one . . . And suddenly it wasn’t fair, all this waiting. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t tolerable, it wasn’t fun and it wasn’t safe. Maybe it would be better not to be waiting at all, so you wouldn’t have to feel the pangs that were thrust into you when you wanted something badly. Maybe it would be better not to be alive at all. This thought struck wonder and fright into her. But if she were just a canoe she could see water, fish and flowers. She could see ospreys and eagles, the three islands in Lake Katherine, the trees, the water lilies. The boathouse, the dock, the hydro-bike and the water-skiers. And she wouldn’t have to wait. But canoes had to wait too. Canoes had to wait for a chance to skim the surface of the lake. Canoes had to wait for passengers. Canoes had to wait for good weather. Did canoes feel tired and heavy when waiting so long? Did canoes feel sad about people forgetting about them? Did canoes feel as though things disappeared before they got to them? Almost desperately, she searched her mind for things that didn’t have to wait. Trees? No, a tree waited for rain so its roots could suck up water like giant straws. It waited for children
January/February 2000
Clara Schumann: Piano Virtuoso
Clara Schumann: Piano Virtuoso by Susanna Reich; Clarion Books: New York, 1999; $18 As her tender, pale fingers grasped the ivory keys of the grand piano, she could feel herself shaking with nervousness. If you are a musician, or have another talent which requires you to perform in public, then you have probably experienced the anxiety that Clara Schumann goes through. The anecdote that I have written above is something that I made up. Although I had never met Clara in person or gone to a movie with her, this book gave me a pretty good idea of the person she was, and the things she did. Almost every day, I hear my mother telling me to practice, and to get my projects done. I’ve heard a lot of people say that “practice makes perfect.” This saying seems a little misleading. Do they mean that after a lot of practice you’ll be perfect? If so, what happens after that? Do you still have to practice? Well, after I read just the first few chapters of Clara’s biography, I realized that Clara was a very dedicated person to practice at least five hours every day! Although she wasn’t perfect, she made fewer and fewer mistakes every day! Now I’ll know to listen more carefully when my mother tells me that it’s time to practice! There are many morals that anyone can take home from this book. One example of that is believing in yourself and other people. Would you believe in a selfish man who has lost his wife because of his terrible greed for money? Well, I don’t think I would even trust him with a rusted penny! Clara, on the other hand, had such a man for a father, and trusted him to help her with her piano career. She took in compliments with a warm smile, and brushed back her tears when her father disapproved of her performance. Another one of the morals is Clara’s dedication. If I had the choice of going outside to play, or practice my piano, I would definitely go with choice number one. Which sounds more interesting: the G-major three-octave scale, or a three-on-three game of basketball? If Clara were here, she would definitely choose anything that has to do with music. Not even once did Clara complain that her brothers didn’t have to play an instrument, but that she did. She loved the chance to weep with the low keys when she was sad, and to laugh with the high keys when she was happy. I could relate with Clara in this situation, also. Sometimes, when I am bored or angry, I’ll sit down at the piano and just play. It helps me to forget my anger and it gives me something to do. Clara’s strength to pull herself and her family through the hard times in her life is a good lesson for anyone. Although she did not have the perfect childhood, she was raised in a decent way. Clara married her musician friend, Robert Schumann, who was a very hardworking, dedicated man. She had eight kids of her own and made sure that they had a good childhood. Clara had to face many tragic incidents in her life, such as the death of two children, her husband being sent to a mental hospital, and eventually becoming a widow at age thirty-six. But this didn’t stand in the way of her piano playing. Through all this pain and agony, I don’t think anyone could ever go back to playing an instrument that once brought them joy. But Clara still continued on her tours in order to raise money for her family’s needs. Although Clara’s children aren’t talked about much, I wonder what they were thinking at this point in their lives. Their father had died, their mother was almost always gone, and two of their siblings had passed away. I bet Clara’s children were as brave and strong as she was. I definitely enjoyed reading this book, especially because I feel that Clara and I have so much in common. For instance, we both have two younger brothers, play piano, and like to compose music. While reading this book I could almost feel Clara’s stage fright as she stepped on the stage of the Gewandhaus (a historic hall in Germany) and the pleasure she got out of playing on a beautiful grand piano. After reading this book I strongly feel that Clara’s great accomplishments and beliefs should make her one of the greatest role models for all young girls aspiring to be great musicians. Sindhuja Krishnamoorthi, 12Manhattan, Kansas
The Shopping Incident
“OK, girls,” Mom said. “I’ll be shopping around.” “Good-bye, Mother,” I said impatiently, a little too eager to go browsing with Lauren. I had just turned twelve three days ago, and Mom said I’d be allowed to shop without adult supervision with her in the mall, just at a different store—as long as I was shopping with a friend. When Mom turned away to leave, I grinned at Lauren, who smiled back. “Where should we go first?” I asked. Lauren shrugged. “You decide.” “You’re the guest.” Somehow we chose a boutique, and Lauren picked out one of those cheap fuzzy things that you wrap around your neck called boas. “What do you think my mom will say?” “I think she’ll say . . . ahhh!” I joked, and Lauren laughed. We trudged into another store. I went over to look at the hairsprays while Lauren sampled everything. I noticed she was looking intently at some lipstick. Carefully she picked it up and winked at me, then dropped it into her purse. I sucked in my breath. “Dare me?” Lauren asked, a mischievous look on her face. “No,” I said firmly. “Let’s go, Lauren.” Just then, a saleswoman came up from behind us. “Can I help you girls?” she asked, sounding suspicious as her tiny gray eyes darted from me to Lauren. “Can I help you girls?” she asked, sounding suspicious Lauren put on her sweetest smile that fools teachers for about three weeks. “No, thank you. Do you have any purple nail polish?” The saleswoman blinked. “No, we just ran out. But can I recommend the mauve? It’s a bit like the purple.” “I’ll take it!” Lauren declared, picking up a shiny glass of the stuff. “Are you going to get anything, Amy?” I bit my lip. “No.” The saleswoman glared at me. “Can I get you anything else?” she inquired politely, addressing Lauren, who was counting her change. Lauren looked up. “No thanks.” Then, as we walked out, I saw her drop the lipstick back into the correct place when the saleswoman’s back was turned. When we got out, I stared fiercely at Lauren. “People like that get in trouble! You shouldn’t do stuff like that.” Lauren gave me a dirty look. “I didn’t get caught, did I? And I didn’t even steal anything. I was just joking. You’re like your mother. ‘No shopping by yourself at the mall unsupervised until you’re older, honey,'” she mimicked, laughing. I curled my hands into fists, but Lauren just grinned. “Oh, gosh, Amy, lighten up. You’re such a sissy sometimes! Come on, let’s go find your mom.” I didn’t mention the incident to Mom, and luckily she was busy fussing over my younger sister Rachel, who was throwing a tantrum over the dress Mom bought her. I was afraid that if I told Mom about Lauren, she’d never let me go places with her again, and Lauren was my best friend. When Rachel finally agreed to stop bawling over the dress if Mom would get her new shoes, Mom came into my room, and I buried my nose in a book so she wouldn’t see my worried look. “Is something wrong, honey?” Mom asked. “No. How’d you know—I mean, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m perfectly fine.” I gazed up at my mother and smiled shakily. “Well, for one thing, you’re reading a book,” Mom said, “which doesn’t happen very often on a Saturday night.” I shrugged. “I decided to change my lifestyle,” I said, which made Mom laugh. “That’s a good one,” Mom told me, smiling. “I have such a witty family!” Then she strode off, ready to scold my sister for kicking the wall, which Rachel was doing right then. I sighed, trying to figure out what to do about Lauren. I knew Lauren would get in trouble if I told someone, especially her mom, but if I didn’t, what if she really did steal something, not just fake it? * * * At school, that Monday, I saw Lauren but didn’t go over to her like usual. I didn’t want her to mention Saturday, and I was still confused. Instead of suffering through an uncomfortable five minutes before the bell with Lauren, I tried desperately to follow the conversation going on with the Mitchell twins. Fawn and Andrea always hang out together because they don’t have any friends, but they’re always nice to everyone. They’re a little strange, but I like to think of them as unique, and they really listen when you talk so you don’t feel like you’re talking to air. In line, though, Lauren teased me, “So you’re taking the Mitchell twins over me, huh, Amy?” With a sigh, I turned around from the sneers and Lauren, wishing I were anywhere but there. “Sorry, Amy,” Lauren said quickly when she saw my offended look. “I was just joking.” Ha, ha, I thought. Joke? I wanted to remind her that I had other friends besides her, but she’d already turned away. I didn’t have to hang out with her every second. I tried to avoid Lauren during recess by playing games she didn’t like, such as kickball. But Lauren played anyway, so I quit and headed for the girls’ room. Lauren followed. “Are you mad at me?” she asked. I didn’t answer. “Look, I didn’t mean to make you mad, if you are mad at me,” Lauren added. I smiled. This was the Lauren I knew. This was the Lauren I was best friends with. “It’s OK,” I said. “I guess I have been kind of a baby.” Lauren nodded her agreement, and before I could say anything, she grabbed my arm. “C’mon,” she said, “let’s go finish that kickball game!” * * * Mom took Rachel and me to the mall again next Sunday to return Rachel’s dress and get me some slacks and a wool sweater for winter. “Can I walk around again?” I asked. Mom hesitated. “Without Lauren?” “I’ll go with her!” Rachel piped up.
