Music and Memories

I remember music. Music was such a vivid and important part of my life. A part that no matter how old I get, I will never forget.

I remember music. I was in fourth grade and learning to play the recorder. I instantly realized it was an innate skill. My music teacher at the time, I hope she forgives me for not remembering her name, brought instruments to the class. REAL instruments. One instrument she brought in and played was the clarinet. I instantly associated that with the recorder and thought I want to play that. 

It all began when I was fifth grade. There I was, ten years old at a demonstration one evening after school where students and parents could sign their kids to begin instrument lessons. REAL music lessons. I already knew I wanted to play the clarinet. And then it all started. ALL of it. My musical journey. Years of music lessons, private and group, concerts, solos, competitions, traveling, uniforms, graduations, parades, jazz ensembles, choral ensembles, basketball games, football games, music store emergency runs, student conducting, school projects. I incorporated everything into music. Even into other course projects that had nothing to do with it...somehow I found a way to tie the two together. By the time I was in high school, I really divulged into it and gave it everything I had. It was the only thing that mattered. It was my only love. I remember music.


It continued after high school into college. College is when it became more serious; and it was time to decide whether I wanted music as a career or not. After much work, thinking, deliberation, arguments with my parents, and more thinking, I decided that it would not be a career choice of mine, but it would always remain a hobby. A hobby that I would always love and a time in my life that I would NEVER forget. Forever.

After graduating from college, I moved out of my parent's house and into my first apartment, found my first full time job, went back to school for my Masters, and began a new relationship, whom later became my husband, all within a year. I was loving life...but something was missing. About a year or two later, I was recruited by the Worcester Chorus. I sang with them professionally for about two years. However, in those two years, I got married, I started working in Boston full time, and even started my own business. It became extremely difficult to attend regular rehearsals while commuting 40 miles away by train. I finished out the 2010 season, but I didn't return after the summer like I had in previous years. Life just always seemed to get in the way.

Two years later this weekend, my stepdaughter, who is nine years old and is a HUGE fan of the Beatles, which I only have my husband to thank, asked over and over if I could play "When I'm 64" on the clarinet for her. In high school, we religiously played rock 'n' roll music in addition to the classics. My music teacher was also a huge fan of the Beatles, and pretty much anything worth the title of "classic rock". We were always playing and singing the Beatles' music. It was one of the memories I hold so dear.

After some back and forth, with her and in my own mind, I decided to do it for her. I tried excuses such as, "I don't know where my music is" or "I forget how to play." But nothing worked on her. After the pleading and one look into that sweet nine-year old's blue eyes, I was upstairs in my office, dusting off my clarinet case. My husband went down into our basement and dug out three black binders full of old sheet music. I peeled through pages upon pages of music. Some of them were turning yellow; they smelled of must, stale air, and dust. Some of the pages were stuck together from years of humidity and storage. I turned every page and read every title. Every page I turned was like I was turning back a year in time. I read through each scribbled note on the top of each page from whomever I shared my music stand with. Some of the notes were meaningless. Some of them I remember like they were yesterday.

The sight of my clarinet broke my heart. I had only one reed left in my box. All the other broken cases empty from years and concerts past. The once bright, shiny, silver keys were old and tarnished. The cork between each piece broken. All the while, I could feel my stepdaughter studying me as I slowly put the pieces together, adjusting the mouthpiece carefully. I tried my damnedest not to cry. I was surprised at how quickly my fingers found their positions over the keys, like they had so easily every day for fifteen years. It was like ten years had not passed in between. Although struggling at first, I was able to remember the fingerings and play the song. My stepdaughter happily danced and sang in her pajamas through our living room. Although it wasn't exactly what I remembered, and God knows I don't have the skills I once did, it was the best concert I've performed in a long time.

I realize this weekend was about Memorial Day. Thanking and remembering those who have fought and poured their hearts and souls into our freedom. Although today in 2012, I think we all can agree that our amount of freedom in this country is questionable at best, it doesn't change the fact that there were men and women who have literally put forth their lives for this country and our freedom. One of those men was my grandfather, Rudolph J. Gniadek. He served in the U.S. Navy in World War II. He was married to my grandmother for over 40 years and raised two boys, Jeffrey, my father, and my uncle, David. He had four grandchildren, myself being his only granddaughter. And he was damn proud of all of it.

Looking back and remembering, I don't look into my past without seeing him. He was one of my biggest supporters and believers next to my father. He was always there, for all of us. Every step of the way.

That's what this weekend is about, isn't it, remembering? And that's what this weekend was about. Remembering. You can remember certain memories of your own, those who have passed on that were dear to you, those who have served for this country, or those who have served for your family. Regardless of who or what you remember, as long as you take the time to remember.

Happy Memorial Day.