Dance of the Hours

Dance of the Hours
Heaven knows, I spent my share of time sweating in the vineyard. But there is one lazy Saturday afternoon years ago that I still feel guilty about. It was during the winter, when I was around ten. My father, grandfather, and brothers were pruning directly west of the house. Though I hadn�t yet learned to prune, I had learned to help by dragging the brush into the center of the row so that it could be shredded later on. I had also learned to use a pair of shears to cut the twine that held the previous season�s canes in place on the wire, and to cut some of the extra brush away to make the work easier for the others. It was a lovely, melancholy day: cold but not too cold, overcast, windless. My mother was in the kitchen. I was seated at the piano. The idea was to spend half an hour or so after lunch practicing my lesson. But for some reason, I sat there for three full hours, during which time I played my way through several books, trying this piece by Beethoven and that by Mozart, with a little Brahms and Haydn thrown in, simplified snippets of symphonic works I had heard on our record player, a barcarole here, a mazurka there, and on and on. The interesting thing is, I had never played that long before. But I wasn�t playing to avoid working in the vineyard. My mother said nothing. From time to time, I would think of the others and feel a twinge of guilt. And yet, no one had said specifically that I was supposed to be helping them. I was taking piano lessons. Practice was part of the bargain. And since I rarely practiced enough, playing all afternoon seemed like a big step in the right direction. The hours didn�t pass as hours usually did. They simply turned to mist and were absorbed by the gray winter light coming in through the windows. While I was playing, I listened to the music with a new kind of pleasure. I was surprised to see that I was playing more fluidly, and with fewer mistakes. I was still playing when my father and brothers quit for the day. When my father came into the room, I immediately understood by his expression that he had been expecting me to help in the vineyard. He didn�t scold me, but he let me know in a few words I have forgotten that I had made a wrong decision. It was a sad, confusing moment. It was confusing because I had been so happy, and sad because it seemed my father thought playing the piano was less important than pruning vines. Looking back, I can say this was the first time that I experienced the age-old conflict of Art versus Practicality. My father had every right to feel the way he did, because he was responsible for the farm and for our well-being. And I had every right to be carried away by the act of making music. Instinctively, even then, I knew we were both right. I still know it. I also know hard work and ability don�t always put food on the table. Sometimes luck puts it there, sometimes pure accident. Now, in my ancient, foolish wisdom, I gratefully accept each way in turn. Still, the memory of that day lingers. I wish I had helped in the vineyard that day. I�m also glad I didn�t. *September 22, 2005* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Main Page Author�s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let�s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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