Author’s program note. It happened when he was immersed in a brown study of some conveniently recondite puzzle of cosmic significance. There, walking down the uneven sidewalk that borders the Common, there right in front of me I saw two lucky ones who only had eyes for each other. His presence was striking; Pulling me immediately out of myself, focusing all my attention on them, two people learning how exciting and fulfilling union can be.

You’re jumping in front of me now I dare say. You’re expecting a young thing intertwined with another, in love perhaps, or making good progress at it. But if you think this, you would be wrong, totally wrong. Because the two people I saw, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, were a young father and his little daughter. She seemed to be on the sunny side of her thirties; she was three or four years old. And one more enraptured couple that I didn’t see that day…nor had I seen a long time before. They only had eyes for each other.

The young father was in the process of charming his daughter; he was in the middle of not only telling her a story… but acting it out. Her animals weren’t just words from her mouth. They lived! They moved! They entered! He didn’t just talk about her movements… she moved as they would in life, going where they had to go… and to show her deep and sincere appreciation for her constant efforts and efforts. .. she laughed, completely. merrily, with a glee that she had already mastered… and that she spent lavishly, reward for her beloved father.

No wonder he couldn’t take his eyes off this scene of glare and sun. She could only wish them both one thing to make what they had perfect…and that was the gift of clear memory.

Spontaneous tears.

After a minute or two my path parted from theirs; they continued without thinking or acknowledging or acknowledging that someone like me even lived. And whether it was for this thought or one like it, I felt tears. It’s the kind of thing that happens to too many dumb old bums if they’ve dined too badly but too well or dwelled too long on things that could have been… and why they wasted so many opportunities, because they were sure they would. come again, but he didn’t.

6 or 7 more or less, the softest hands, the most caressing voice.

Then my own memory carried me away as it so often does these days. And I wasn’t pining for loves that could have been and that I discarded without thinking, without hesitation or without anguish. Instead, I heard a voice I knew as well as my own, a voice that represented everything I valued and had every reason to be grateful for. His voice. And this voice didn’t just come from memory. I heard it because she was there with me again… and everything was there, just as it should be. And just as it all sounded sixty years ago and more.

“My little love, are you feeling a little better? I have something you’ll like.” And she always did. A book. A tale carefully considered before it is read to me; sometimes one she knew I loved; sometimes one that she was sure she would grow to love, because she already did. Thus in her own reassuring hands she brought me, between covers, pages sometimes not yet cut, the unimaginable riches of the world, sometimes when I was sick; sometimes to calm the way to a dreamless sleep. And no matter how much he gave me, there were always more summoned by his practiced magic. But the real magic didn’t come between covers with uncut pages; not even with stories of fascinating effect. The most supreme spell was the one that produced her voice and some dexterous movements that denoted care, skill, mastery and, above all, love.

“By the shores of Gitche Gumee.”

With a moment or two, a hint and a hint, I could probably name everything he read to me… not just because of the lyrical power of the authors’ words but because of his voice. Your cadence. its resonance. Its sound. Its sheer beauty and charm. Every word counted and that is why he did not neglect any word. Every line counted and so she delivered every line. Every paragraph counted…and that’s why she didn’t miss a single paragraph. Therefore, she played one of our favorites; “The Song of Hiawatha” by my close neighbor on Brattle Street, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published to universal acclaim in 1855. I can hear it now…see it…live as I listen to her read the words she loved:

“By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the brilliant Great Water of the Sea, stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.”

But his magic was by no means exhausted, it didn’t even start. For now he told me to close my eyes, to see the shores of Gitche Gumee, the shining Great Water of the Sea, the wigwam, and above all, Nokomis, Moonchild Nokomis. And as she asked me, I did so until they were no longer maternal words, but great views, places of importance and truth. Such was the magic of her voice.

But there is no joy in Mudville.

One of his favorites, which became one of mine, was “Casey at the Bat”, “A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888”. It was written by Ernest Thayer and first published in “The San Francisco Examiner” on June 3, 1888. No voice delivered it with greater enthusiasm and American idiom than she did, perhaps because she was an ardent supporter of the hapless Cubbies of she. the Chicago Cubs. Thus, while she spoke, she made all the captivating gestures:

“Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun shines bright; somewhere the band is playing, and somewhere hearts are light, and somewhere men laugh, and somewhere children cry; but there is no joy in Mudville – the mighty Casey has struck.”

“And the highwayman came riding.”

Over the years, in sickness and in sickness, his voice has opened one treasure chest after another…Thomas Gray, Tennyson, Frost, Sandburg, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Robert Browning, Dylan Thomas…but this It was always one of his favorites. , for his dramatic sense worked well with Alfred Noyes, the great poet of the empire on which the sun never set, ruled by the Great White Queen after whom my grandmother was named. He published it in 1906 and made him a world figure.

“The wind was a torrent of darkness through the gusting trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed over cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding – Riding – riding – The highwayman came riding up to the old gate of the inn.

And, as usual now, she closed my eyes and opened my mind’s eye to see the ghostly galleon, the moonlight ribbon, and the highwayman, “a bunch of lace on the chin,” the highwayman roads I kept riding, riding, riding. . With every word, with every image, she helped me become the man I am today. Your children deserve so much from you, and since you love them, do so; because this is a sure way to ensure not only their constant improvement, but that you and your voice come down to them and keep you a living presence forever in their lives.

Mail.

For the musical accompaniment of this article, I have selected the brilliant suite composed by Nicholai Rimsky-Korsakov in 1888. It is called “Scheherazade”. It is the story of a cunning woman whose ability to entertain the sultan by telling stories about her kept her alive. Based on “One Thousand and One Nights,” my mom loved it from the opening bassline to every haunting note that follows. She was always happy to recognize the talents of other magicians and fortune tellers. You will find it in any search engine. Go now and play. His wealth enriches this article… and he will do the same for you.