Musical Mundanity

I remember when the world made music. That was what he said. It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it. Not in a nostalgic way; in the way a young man does when challenged by an older man who feels his advanced age and experience holds some kind of authority over the young; or, even worse, that the lack of age and experience makes the young of lesser consequence. But of course, no one was there to make such a challenge. It was only he and I. And I thought, but the world still makes music, Grandpa.

I followed his gaze out over the freshly cut grass. Fireflies flickered in the dusk. A dull, silent throbbing of yellow glow. The frogs and the crickets nestled by the pond over the hill creaked and croaked a steady beat like a cranky metronome in the cool night air. The trees slowly swayed in an easy breeze, the wind in the leaves a soft hush. It was natural jazz. (Is there any other kind?) You couldn’t say there was no structure, but the structure was loose, to say the least. Each musician in her own key, playing in her own time. Raw. Even the contralto dissonance of the barn owl in the loft had its place and its purpose. Making music indeed.

I looked up at Grandpa. He was looking at something. Or nothing. But he was smiling. Or at least I thought he was smiling. I got the sense that he was hearing the music just as well as I was. My face wrinkled in confusion. I turned back to my book. I touched the tip of my finger to my tongue and turned the page

Schlick.

I ran my finger along the textured, yellowed paper, just under the words as I read

Shhht.

I took my finger away as I reached for my glass of iced tea. As I brought it to my mouth the ice shifted in the glass

Plink.

Slurp.

Gulp.

Ahhh.

I placed the glass back on the table

Tonk.

And then, unwittingly, I played it again.

Schlick.

Shhht.

Plink.

Slurp.

Gulp.

Ahhh.

…..

And it struck me just before I placed the glass back down.

Tonk.

In my mind, it was much more than the sound of glass, wet from the condensation, on a wooden tabletop. It was the final chord, the climax of the symphony that had been played on a tattered copy of Hemingway, a handmade table and a Mason jar rather than strings and horns and reeds under the excited direction of a conductor. Even the frogs and the birds and the crickets had fallen silent. Or at least it seemed that way. Nature was musical, yes. But there was more. There was music in the mundane. You just had to listen for it. I realized that I’d heard it all along. There, in the most obscure activities. At breakfast: the cascade of Cheerios, the splash of milk, the spoon on the bowl and crunch, crunch, crunch. Even before Grandpa's comment--seemingly out of the blue--as I turned the page and drank my tea. Had I been bobbing my head? Had I subconsciously measured my movement to keep time?

Was life just a series of subtle notes, moving up and down the scales in three-quarter time? Who was the conductor? Would I hear it forever?

I pitched my face towards Grandpa, my eyes and my mouth wide. I hear it! I wanted to scream, but he sat staring straight ahead as if the only music he was hearing was that of the humid summer night. I noticed the nuanced note of his rocking chair on the wooden planks. He was smiling. Or at least I think he was smiling.

I remember when the world made music. That was what he'd said.