The eyes-Windows of the Soul
A few months ago, at my grandson’s birthday while we were
playing around and celebrating, I picked
up my son-in-law’s piano accordion and started playing it even though I hadn’t
touched an accordion in thirty five years and then only one or two times. I played, badly, “happy Birthday to you” and “The
Tennessee Waltz.”
We all laughed at my attempt and my daughter videoed me on her new fancy cell
phone. When I saw this video I was amused and emailed it to my friends. My
friends emailed back voicing astonishment at my “expertise” and said they even
danced to the Tennessee Waltz. Unfortunately she noted that I did not look a
“happy musician” and she was right. I also had noticed a very sad look in my
eyes and was puzzled by it. My rational mind told me it was due to pain- I was
recuperating from a frozen shoulder- and the irrational part of me said what I
saw was the mirroring of a sad soul-perhaps mine. I replayed the video. The look seemed familiar
and then I recognized it. I had seen it in my father’s eyes. And now I will
tell you a story of my father: He was a quiet somewhat stern man who said
little but this is what he told me one day a long time ago when I was still a
young woman. “I was once a musician. I used to play the piano accordion. I used
to play for dances in my village and after the dance as I walked home softly
playing to myself, people would throw open their windows to listen and say “John
you play like an angel”. Once when I had to go to the city to buy out my commission
(my father was an officer in the Russian army during World War 1) I met another
soldier while we were waiting who had a new accordion and I asked if I could
play it. I played all afternoon and the soldiers danced all afternoon in the
square. When it was over I had made enough money to pay off my commission.” I
asked him what happened as I had never heard him play nor did I know of this
side of him. He paused a moment then said he didn’t know. “I just stopped” he
said , looking at me puzzled. He said that years later in Canada while visiting
a friend he asked to play his accordion and picked it up but started to tremble
all over uncontrollably unable to play at all. Then he said “I put the
accordion down and knew I would never play again”. And that is when I saw that
look in my father’s eyes. Now I wonder what other hard sacrifices were
necessary for him to give up by
immigrating to Canada- his difficult life and the resulting traumas suffered by
him like the sacrifice of being unable to play an instrument
he loved and to give up this essential
part of himself and I wondered also if this was so of many of our immigrants. I realize now this is a Canadian
story-the sacrifices of giving up part of the inherent self of Canadian immigrants and indeed one of the
basic ingredients in the tapestry of what makes up the Canadian character-
another reason to be proud to be a Canadian. Thanks for listening to my father's story- your grateful blogger.
