Cello in the library

Sitting in the public library

on a Sunday afternoon

(the day for the rest of us).

I hear the espresso machine

whining and whirling

in the corner of this large room

(yes, it's the 'plaza' room where

readers and laptoppers

can eat and drink while they study

or leisurely take in words).

The big screen TV is

mutely tuned to

the NFL game—Colts and Chiefs

(yes, the men in blue are winning).

I am reading the New York Times

Book Review section.

And I am doing what I really came

to do—listening to a young woman

play the cello.

She is very good.

She begins with a Bach piece,

then goes on to play a variety

of styles, including a piece

that sounds like a Shaker song,

and one that is totally plucked.

It's a free concert.

The live cello music

is very meditative

in spite of the TV where no. 18

leads his team to victory

and people walking through the room

and a group sitting around a table

doing some project together

that entails much discussion

and the smell of fresh coffee

wafting through the cello strings.

I close my eyes and let the music

take me places…

I feel the wind blowing through

my balding hair

and see the sea gulls

riding on waves of air…

I smell the ripe apples

on the trees

feel the warmth

of the yellow circle

in the sky…

After an hour of celloing

the musician ends her concert.

As she pulls back her long brown hair

we all applaud.

It's not every day you get to

hear live music

while watching football

and reading book reviews.

I wish I had learned

to play the cello

when I was a kid—

instead of the trumpet.

I was a good trumpeter,

but my embrasure was not great,

and it broke down after I finished

high school.

But if I had taken up

the cello

I could still be playing.

I heard Yo-Yo Ma play

in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

It was a marvelous experience.

But I'm glad my name isn't Yo-Yo.

I mean, can you imagine

the taunting you would get as a kid?

"Hey, Yo-Yo, you feeling up or down today?"

"Hey, Yo-Yo, are you strung out today?"

"Yo! Yo-Yo!"

I don't know what the library cellist's

name is.

It must have been very difficult

for her to concentrate on the music

while people were walking through

the room,

and the NFL was being watched,

and the coffee machine

was grumbling or whistling

and talking was emanating from the corner.

But I can relate.

I remember many Sundays

when I concentrated on what I was saying

from the pulpit

while a child cried

or an old lady had a coughing fit,

or a weary parishioner snored away.

It's a skill you learn over time.

After the library performance

Pat and I went to the 5:30 service

at All Saints Episcopal.

About twenty-five people there.

The older part-time priest

was in charge.

The music was led by an acoustic group—

three guitars, a mandolin, and a vocalist.

Not a praise band, mind you,

but an accompaniment group.

It was a nice liturgical service

following the Episcopal form.

The sermon was okay:

it made some good connections

to life (though I could have corrected

a couple of points).

We were not sitting in the front

because I never sit in the front

at an Episcopal or Catholic service;

I want someone else in front of me

whom I can follow

in case I stand up or sit down

or kneel at the wrong place

in the service.

Two pews in front of us

was a man and his wife.

They seemed to know what

they were doing.

But at one point in the service

when we were all standing,

there was a moment of silence;

that's when the woman tooted.

(Toot is a nice way of saying, fart.

Toot is the word we use with our

granddaughter; we never say 'fart.')

The woman tooted.

Not a loud toot, just a nice solid one.

I looked at Pat.

We were getting ready to say

the Apostles Creed

(which wasn't written by the apostles—

it didn't even appear in its present form

unto the 8^th century).

Neither Pat nor I laughed.

We continued to look sanctimonious.

But all through the Creed I kept hearing

that toot.

(born of the virgin Mary—toot—descended

into hell—toot—the holy catholic church—toot—

amen—toot).

It gives a new meaning to 'smells and bells.'

Anyway, it was a good Sunday.

Sleeping-in in the morning,

concert in the afternoon,

and worship in early evening.

I think that's the way

Jesus meant it to be.