once upunce a time...

I am currently in New York.  Upstate.  (Sorry, no cities in view.  Just farms).  Visiting family.

This means that I have plenty to write about.  Just relatively little time for writing.

Consequently, I have opportunity to post something different that usual: a story.  Previously written.  I love writing (as you may have read in one of my introductory posts) and could be content forever to keep my scribbles in my cozy little embrace... but - especially after writing that post about blessings,  heh - I don't think that's a prudent course of action.  And let's just be honest: artists want feedback.  Eventually.

So read.  Enjoy (hopefully).  Give constructive feedback, if you will.

Thanks, friend.

Notes

        When Emma was four, she named the pipe organ Humphrey.  Daddy would play the yellow keys with his fingers and the big, long pedals with his toes.  Humphrey would sing, and Daddy would sing, and Emma would crawl into the pipe chamber behind the tall, shiny pipes and listen to Humphrey and Daddy sing.

        When Emma was five, Daddy didn't sing anymore.  He didn't play the yellow keys or the big, long pedals.  He coughed, and Humphrey couldn't sing.

        When Emma turned six and two days, Daddy went to sing with Jesus.  And Emma crawled into the pipe chamber behind the tall, shiny pipes, and her lip trembled, and she cried.  Even though she knew Daddy was with Jesus.

Dear Jesus,

I think Humfry is sad.  Becuz Daddy is not here any more.  I am sad to.  Sumtimes I cry.  Do you cry? 

Love,

Emma

Dear Jesus,

Humfry let me push down peduls today.  I forgot to turn on his lungs first so it was funny at first becuz he was kwiet.  But akshuly I was scard becuz he didnt sing and I miss Daddy.  Pleez hug Daddy for me.

Love,

Emma

Dear Jesus,

Humfry and me were silly.  Becuz today we made lots of noyz and I pushed down lots of keys and we sang loud.  I think you and Daddy wood laf.

Love,

Emma

Dear Jesus,

Today is Sunday.  We did church and this man played Humfry loud and bad and not like Daddy.  Humfry got mad but I telled him to love that man becuz I think you wood love him.  And I think Daddy wood to.  Even thoe he played bad.

Love,

Emma

ps Pleez hug Daddy. 

Dear Jesus,

Humfry cryed agen today.  Lots of peepl cum make him sing now how he dosnt like to sing.  I hugged him for you.

Love,

Emma

***

        I glanced down at my cell.  9:53.  So screwed.  I was supposed to be at the church twenty-three minutes ago to go through the service quick and see the organ before I actually had to play it.  Oh, well.  They were Christians.  They'd be forgiving.  And if they weren't, they didn't have to ask me back.  No big.

        Still.  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and laid my toes into the pedal.

        It was a sizeable redbrick church just outside a military base city.  Emmanuel Lutheran.  I flew into the decently filled parking lot and, one embarrassing parking job later, bolted through the large oak doors.  Men with bulletins and cheesy church name tags greeted me.

        "I'm Amber Stanton - I'm the organist today."

        "Great!  Ted is waiting for you upstairs.  He's one of the ushers.  He'll answer any questions you have."

        "Thanks!"

        I sprinted up the stairs to a view worthy of a magazine.  The sanctuary lay beautifully exposed beneath me: a rich crimson motif pervaded the nave decor, stained glass windows washed vibrant shades across the people-laden pews, and a great polished crucifix graced the altar. 

        A wrinkly old gentleman waited for me beside the organ consul with a bulletin and - upon seeing my armload of music books - an enormously relieved expression.

        "You must be our musician today!  Glad you could make it!" he whispered enthusiastically.

        No kidding.  9:57.  So much for prelude music.

        "I unlocked the consul and the organ is on.  I'm afraid I can't help much more than that, but let me know if you need anything.  I'll be right downstairs."

        "Thank you," I smiled.  I slid onto the bench, set my hymnal on the music rack, and scanned the stops.  Oh, my.  So many stops.  It looked like a switchboard from Star Wars.  This was a beast.  I twisted around toward the back of the balcony and discovered a resplendency of pipes arrayed against the back wall like a vast, frozen choir: massive silver basses braced the adoring ceiling and horizontal brass trumpets suspended themselves like time on an upper tier - and that was only the exposed face; I knew thousands more lay behind them, inside the pipe chamber. 

        Well shoot.  This had better be a singing congregation, because I was gonna open that sucker up.

        The bell tolled its Sunday morning welcome and the pastor's voice announced the first hymn from beneath the balcony.  Flipping down a swath through the rows of stops, I dug into the yellowed keys and improvised an introduction.  The congregation chimed in dutifully as the organ ripped open for the first verse of "Oh, That I Had a Thousand Voices"; they weren't a pastor's convention, by any means, but they had lungs.  Each stanza merited its own sound color, finally concluding in a thick, reedy fortissimo. 

        As the service proceeded, I noticed subtle, breathy pockets in the instrument's blend.  It became painfully apparent when I attempted an interlude on a set of crisp, light flutes: two prominent holes in the melody ambushed me in "Soul, Adorn Yourself with Gladness."  They tried to whisper their pitch, but to no avail.  Something was wrong with the pipes - their mouths were blocked.

        Curiosity plagued me, but I decided it would probably be within my - and the organ's - best interest not to poke around the chamber during the sermon.  The liturgy proceeded, the Eucharist was celebrated, and the closing hymn sent preacher and acolytes marching out the back of the sanctuary. 

        "Go in peace and serve the Lord!" the pastor's baritone declared from the speakers.

        "Thanks be to God!" rumbled the congregation as it broke into the greeting of neighbors and folding up of bulletins and gathering of purses and suit coats.

        After the final cadence of my postlude, I dismounted the bench and climbed toward the chamber, determined to discover the door.  Disguised in a side panel, it unlatched noiselessly and swung out.  As I was the only soul in the balcony, I hardly felt apologetic in inviting myself to enter. 

        The dimly lit interior boasted exceptional cabinetry for the pipes, especially considering the apparent age of the instrument.  I ducked inside and greeted a steep ladder to my right.  I mounted it and ascended to a second loft of metal choristers.  A plank ran the length of the chamber, parting the ranks like the Red Sea.  An average-sized man could fit if he went sideways; a fat man would undoubtedly be impaled by a front line of ferocious oboes.

        Climbing off the ladder and onto the plank, I began to examine the pipes.  The reeds were fine - no need to look through those.  I shuffled toward a cluster of rectangular, wooden flutes.  Bending down, I noticed little slips of folded paper stuffed into some of the pipes' small, mouth-like openings.  One even had crayons assorted neatly inside. 

        No wonder the pipes were acting up - air wasn't making it across the lips, so of course they couldn't sound.  I crawled over and began extracting the slips, one by one.  Pretty soon a mound started to spawn on the plank next to me.  And as I went, I noticed more: an entire row of flecked, cylindrical pipes were sticking little paper tongues out at me too. 

        "No, I don't see her," the pastor's voice rang across the sanctuary, catching my consciousness.  Oh, goodness, they were probably looking for me!  Organists don't tend to vaporize after the service.

        "I'm here!"  I called from inside the chamber.  My voice thudded flatly against the walls and I scrambled down the ladder.

        Ted was just emerging from the stairs when I popped out the door.  Spotting me, his kind features expanded in surprise.

        "There you are!  We were afraid you escaped without your check."

        Shuffling past a pew to him, I reached out and took the envelope he extended toward me.

        "Haha, thank you.  Sorry about that.  The organ got a little tongue-tied on some of the hymns, so I wanted to look inside quick."

        "Uh-oh.  Did you find anything?"

        "Yeh, actually.  Some of the pipe mouths were blocked.  Somehow a lot of little papers got stuffed inside them."

        "Little papers?"

        "I left them in the chamber when I heard you looking for me.  Mind if I grab them quick?"

        "Sure, go ahead."

        In a moment I was back with a giant wad of papers the size of a duck and a fistful of crayons. 

        "Holy moly, and here we just thought all those organists were fudging it," chuckled the old man as I unloaded on a pew.

        "Haha, no, not quite."

        "Who'd'a done something like that?"

        "No idea.  I haven't looked inside any of these little boogers yet." 

        I picked one up and unfolded it carefully.  Purple crayon and coarse little-kid handwriting covered the page.

Dear Jesus,

Humfry and me sing you love me this I no, and I pushed his keys pretty like Daddy.  We hope you like it.

Love,

Emma

        What a sweet little letter.  Who were Humfry and Emma?  I handed it to Ted and picked up another one.

Dear Jesus,

Mrs. W  telled me you are like Santa, becuz Santa isnt real.  Humfry is mostly mad at her, but I telled her back that you love her.  I hugged her.  Daddy sed hugs help.

Love,

Emma

Dear Jesus,

Grampa and me visited Daddys grave.  I am glad Daddy is not in ther any more.  I am glad you got him.  Becuz that wood be lonly.  Humfry and me dont like that.  So thanks.

Love,

Emma

ps Hug Daddy pleez.

        "Who is Emma?" I asked, still holding the letter.  I brushed open a few more lying on the pew - all of them were in the same first-grader script.  Ted didn't seem to hear me.  I tried again.

        "All these letters were written by a little girl.  How on earth did she get up into the organ chamber?" 

        Ted was opening another.  He didn't look at me.  He just answered quietly, "Emma's daddy was the organist here."

        "What happened to him?"

        "Jim had cancer.  He died four months ago."

        "Oh, wow.  That's rough."

        Ted nodded.

        "Were you close to him?"

        He lifted his face and looked at me sadly.

        "Jim is my boy."

        My breath came in sharply.  I wish I knew what to say.  Ted set his grey eyes back down on the papers littering the pew.  He sighed and patted them.

        "I think I'm going to go get a bag for these.  I'll be right back."

         Lips curving tenderly, he turned and headed down the stairs. 

        I sat dumbly on the pew.  That man was just reading his granddaughter's letters to Jesus.  I unfolded a few more and stared at them silently.  The organ, still on, hummed behind its attentively open-mouthed members.

        Several moments later, muted footfalls padded back up the steps, jerking me out of my trance.  I rose and glided to the bench to gather up my music, slid off my organ shoes and laid them on top of my books. 

        "Thanks for playing, Miss Stanton, and thanks for fixing the organ."  Ted carried a folded paper sack and a warm smile. 

        "Definitely - anytime.  Thanks so much for having me.  It's a beautiful instrument."

        "Yup, I'm inclined to think so.  I'm a little biased though."  He winked.  The somberness that accompanied him to retrieve the sack was replaced now with a sense of peace.  And humor.

        "Soon as I get all these little critters corralled I can see you out."

        "Haha, thanks.  Let me help you there."

        Reaching the pew, he rattled the sack open and held it at the lip of the pew for me to sweep the papers inside.  I knelt down to collect a few that had fluttered beneath the seat.

        "Thank you."

        "No problem."

        We stopped at the organ for me to grab my things and then crossed the balcony to the stairs.  People were still busy cleaning up bulletins and greeting each other and eating donuts when we reached the bottom.

        "Would you like to stay for Bible study?  There's coffee," Ted offered as he tucked the sack by what must have been his coat on the coat rack.

        "Oh, gosh, I really wish I could stay," and I really did, but I had to get back.  "Thanks for the invitation though."

        "You're welcome anytime.  Do you mind if we call you again for playing?"

        "Please do!  I would love that.  Definitely."

        "Wonderful.  Thank you, Miss Stanton.  And thank you for finding those letters."

        He didn't say any more than that, but nodded appreciation. 

        "You're welcome."

        I guess sometimes you don't need to say more.

        I drew open the vast oak door and stepped out into the sunlight.  Kids were running and laughing and shrieking on the modest church lawn as their parents exchanged conversation on the sidewalk.  Piles of midget shoes lay like booby traps across the grass.

        As I cut across the lawn towards my poorly parked car, a little girl with tight blonde curls and bright red slacks paused in her play and cocked her head at me.  She scurried up beside me and squinted up from my elbow.

        "Hello," she smiled.

        "Well, hello there.  How are you?"

        "Good."

        "That's good to hear.  You look like you're having fun with your friends."

        "Yeh."

        "Whatcha playing?"

        "Tag."

        "Ooooo, fun."

        "Yeh."

        We were quiet for a moment. 

        "Can I do something for you?"

        "You play the organ pretty."

        "Well, thank you very much."

        Without warning, she slipped her arms around my waist and squeezed for several seconds.  Letting go, she squinted up at me again, flashed me a bright little grin, and scampered off.

        I guess sometimes you don't need to say more.