TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 147

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 10, 20000000000007


Dear Throng what Ong,

	Yesterday I went to see my therapist.  I 
sat there the whole time crying.  What did you 
cry about, Tobie?  I cried about my fears for the 
future.  My financial situation after the 
settlement is going to be dire.  I don't know how 
I'll get by.  My kids need several hundred 
dollars every month in medications alone.  And 
then, I cried because I'm afraid that the stress 
and battering of the last few years is going to 
squeeze out of me the last of my spark, leave me 
bitter and somber.  There was a time after 
villainman left that I'd go in to my therapist 
and cry for the whole hour, every time.  For 
months, this went on.  I couldn't stop.  I was a 
fountain.  The tears just wouldn't stop.  In a 
way I marvelled at it.  I wondered if it would 
ever end.  But eventually it did, little by 
little.  Now it's been months since I've wept in 
there.  But yesterday was the exception.  I felt 
like apologizing.  Don't want to make the shrink 
feel inadequate.  You know the old saying, "If 
you don't look good, we don't look good."




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                        ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß



Life in the bowl

	In Silver Spring, Maryland, the family 
bathroom was tiled in a deep burgundy with baby 
blue accents.  I liked it even when I was only 
three years old, because it was rich and thick 
with colour.  The squares on their points all 
along the walls, interspersed with blue triangles 
and  trim pleased me.  It was something to look 
at while doing what needed to be done.

	When it was still fairly new to me, I was 
sitting on the toilet, waiting for something to 
come out.  To pass the time, I let my legs dangle 
and swing with the tiles as a background.  Other 
things I could do while waiting was count the 
tiles.  I could also look up at the ceiling and 
stare at the light until I could see it in front 
of me even when I looked away.  There was also 
playing with the toilet paper: winding it and 
unwinding it.  I could even spin it fast and 
watch the ribbon of paper gather on the floor.

	Well, I did my work, wiped as best I 
could, then got up to flush and examine my 
product.  WOW!  There were all kinds of little 
wiggly things coming out of the feces, waving 
around in the water.  They were alive.  This was 
exciting!  I loved it.  I called my mother to 
come see what I could do and the next thing you 
know, I'm in the car on the way to the doctor to 
get some vile medicine to make the wiggly things 
go away.  My mother said they were worms, 
parasites, and she made me wash my hands really 
carefully and frequently after that.  I never saw 
such a fantastic show in the toilet bowl ever 
again.



                        ß‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚ß‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚ß‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚ß‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚‚ß
                        ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß



My hero

	When I was ten years old, Pablo Casals 
came to Berkeley to give a master class.  He was 
the greatest cellist of the twentieth century, 
not just for his technique, but for his humanity. 
He was my hero.  He refused to play for fascists 
or dictators of any kind.  He used his prestige 
and fame for good causes, the first performer in 
modern times to do that on a worldwide scale.

	This was 1960, and he was already a 
little old man.  I'd seen pictures of him playing 
the cello and conducting.  He was short and round 
and bald and had a mole on his crown.  He'd 
married one of his students in 1957.  She was 
something like forty years younger than he.  He 
told her that he was an old man and couldn't do 
those things that young men could do, but they 
decided they couldn't live without each other. 
Those kinds of stories appealed to me even at age 
ten.  Everything he did inspired me.  I was awed 
by the way he submerged himself entirely into the 
music.  On a recording of him playing the Brahms 
first string sextet, you could hear him groaning 
and humming in the background, so they had to 
stuff a pipe in his mouth to keep him quiet.

	His arrival in Berkeley was celebrated 
especially by the Berkeley Cello Club, a loose 
knit organization of young cello students 
sponsored by their cello teachers.  A vast 
network of budding musicians got together on a 
monthly basis and played pieces that were 
transcribed for an orchestra of cellos.  Some of 
the members of the Berkeley Cello Club were as 
young as six.  We were all eager and dutiful and 
sawed away when we were told to saw.  Somehow, 
some genius arranged for Pablo Casals to come to 
hear a concert given by the Cello Club.  We'd had 
a special arrangement of a Bach chorale scored 
for the fifty little sawers.  There was terrific 
excitement as we sat at our music stands, waiting 
for the great master to arrive.  When he walked 
in with his wife, Martita, there was absolute 
silence.  All of us gazed up at Casals, our 
legend, and our tongues did not move.  After they 
were both seated, the conductor came to the front 
of the room to face the orchestra.  The baton 
came down, and we sawed.  We were execrable.  We 
were doing our best, but the best wasn't very 
good.  My skin vibrated with the electricity of 
truly awful intonation, screeches and squawks, 
the creaking of chair legs, the apologies from 
various young cellists who had tried a note or 
two that were deficient.  We all ended roughly at 
the same time.  Then there was silence.

	I waited with feverish anticipation for 
Casals to comment on our battle with the notes. 
He spoke only Spanish, and had a few words of 
English at his disposal.  He stood up from his 
chair, making him not much taller than when he 
was seated, looked out over all our expectant 
faces.  He raised his arms and waved his hands. 
"Beautiful!  Beautiful!" he said.  And I am 
certain that he meant it.

	Then all the little people started 
putting their cellos back in their cases, and 
going home with their parents.  I grabbed my 
sheet music and brought it with me to stand in 
line to meet the master.  When it came my turn, I 
smiled at him and handed him my music.  Confusion 
crossed his face.  He raised his eyebrows at me 
and shook his head.  Then I pantomimed a person 
writing a signature on a piece of paper.  His 
eyes focussed and he smiled with recognition.

	"Oh!" he said, exhaling, and he took out 
a pen, then signed his name to my music.  He 
wrote at an angle, upwards, "Pablo Casals," in an 
even, well formed, legible autograph.  I kept 
that piece of music paper, stapled to its manila 
folder, and took it with me wherever I was 
growing up, through sanity and insanity.  It 
burned up in the fire of 1991.  Irreplaceable.



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                        ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net