CATCHING THE STARS

Fran thought about the multitude of days she had taken the same elevator to the 10th floor. She again walks down the hall to the blue door to put the key into the lock, but for the last time. Today is the final day for her Play it Again sheet music store in New York City, maybe the last one in the country. It has been a cherished space for here and for conductors, composers, musicians, opera singers and others for almost 40 years. They came, not only to buy music, but also to visit Fran, to exchange ideas and experiences, and to share the inspiration of music which, for Fran, was the foundation of the world.

    Some thought Fran’s stewardship of the thousands of sheets of classical music, many rare, made her comparable to a maestro herself, orchestrating the vast collection: organizing, moving, expertly arranging, according to composer, composition, or by other more subtle aspects only she knew about and could convey to those who frequented her shop. Uncanny were her insights and intuitions.

    She had met and served world-class figures, and so many other extraordinary and ordinary “guests,” as she called all her customers. They talked and laughed with her, always charmed by her dark eyes and flash of a smile that could seemingly fill the space with light. Mostly, they wondered at the esoteric nature of Fran’s knowledge of music and of her collection. But, with the advent of the internet, more affordable are readily available downloads, and concerts are now performed with music loaded onto laptops instead of from touchable paper on stands, so no need for a brick and mortar shop. And so Fran had been preparing for some time for the inevitable oblivion of hers, and all that its wares represented. Nevermore, or rarely, will musicians have that sensuous experience of seeing music on paper, holding sheets in hand, turning pages, or even tucking them away somewhere until remembered, or found again in a file or on a shelf, like treasured old books.

    Some few customers who had heard about the shop's fate came by as often as they could in the last few months, if only to visit Fran in her quiet universe of unheard music and take in the ambiance of that space: a certain slant of light in the afternoon; a mood of anticipation, like a concert hall before the conductor walks on and the overture begins. There was also light in Fran’s whole being for the love of music yet to be discovered, played and heard by others. She had become affectionately known as, “the beating heart and soul of classical music.”

    Last week, when interviewed by a nice young man from the New York Times about the impending closure, she told him that her shop was, “a place where there was one of everything. I just love that moment when you put something on the counter and the person goes: ‘Ah! I can’t believe you have this.'” But, she always did, even if the "guests" did not know exactly what they wanted or needed. Her hands deftly lifted each sheet tenderly to lay before them, pointing out the uniqueness of a score and all the subtleties of a particular version—like a mother knows so well the virtues and foibles of each of her children.

    Over the years, new visitors were not only amazed to learn of the scope and depth of the colossal collection, but were also curious about the inexplicable basket of eggs and bunches of rosemary, sage and basil on the front desk. Frequent visitors knew that, while Fran lived in the city, she also had a little farm in western Massachusetts where she raised chickens and tended vegetable gardens. Her guests often carried out freshly-gathered eggs or herbs wrapped in newspaper, along with their sheet music and receipts—always handwritten in pencil by Fran herself, all part of what she called her “little stage,” happy that every day she got to “do her act.”

    When visitors began to dwindle to just a few, then often not even one all day, she felt herself at the edge of a cliff about to fall over.

    Today, Fran turns the key for the last time to the familiar sounds of the creaking door and tinkle of a bronze bell, which in the last few days had not stopped ringing. Dozens of friends and well-wishers braved the wintry weather to visit the shop to say farewell--some for the first time, but all for the last. She now stands disoriented at the door. Although she had anticipated this day for months, even years, she seems unable to step across the threshold. For a moment, she thinks she hears the strains of all of the music she loves—symphonies, fugues, concertos and sonatas emanating from the hidden notations within the stacked leaflets inside. At last, she takes a deep breath and the last step into the familiar silence, except for the muffled sound of traffic far below. She scans the space in her own farewell. There is nothing to be done, except to finish up some paperwork and wait for the movers who will come later today to take the boxes of treasures away to be archived at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Vienna.

    If she herself could create a composition to accompany this day, it would be a lamentation for the passing of an era. Yet one has been creating itself in her heart and will resonate there ever after. Instead, she listens to Mendelsshohn's Hebrides and, as always, the strains transport her to another time and place.

    She is a young woman in a summer long ago on the isle of Uist in the Outer Hebrides. Living in a small crofter’s cottage with the MacKays, who had welcomed her as part of their family. Living and working with them she learned many new things: how to collect seaweed, tend gardens, shear sheep—and about living a simpler life. Most of all, she learned to observe, to pay attention. While at first she experienced the stark landscape as remote and austere, in contrast to the one she had known in the vast city along the Hudson,  day by day she began to notice the subtlties of color on land and sea, to feel the purity of air, to bask in brilliant sunlight and to hear the distant rhythm of the sea. There was comfort, too, in the daily rhythms of the day and season.

    Upon her return, she wanted to live part of her life in that simpler way. She eventually was able to acquire the farm in the Berkshires. Although she had never thought of her work there as her true purpose in life--that was in the city, in this shop on West 54th Street. Still, she knows the farm sustains her, brings a kind equilibriam and peace she had learned that summer and has never forgotten, and believes it lives in her as clearly and vividly as does music.

    Throughout this day she listens to Mendelssohn's The Hebrides and welcomes her last “visitor,” in the form of the bright memory of the isle of Uist--which always brings joy and solace. The evening before she left Scotland, she spent with the MacKays. As the sun went down, they took a simple meal together, drank whisky, recited and sang Robby Burns’ poetry and songs. Filled with sadness, she spoke to the MacKays in gratitude for all the wild and beautiful things: Eagles flying high above the wide drifts of flowers beyond the white sand beaches; the thatched-roofed cottages with their driftwood or whalebone timbers, the lovely low stone walls; and the kindness and generosity of the Hebridean people.

    “I will never forget any of it, or you,” she promised.

    “You haven’t seen everything yet, Lass," said Mr. Mackay. "Come with us now, but keep your eyes closed."

    She was led out by the two older children on a narrow path approaching the sea to the sound of slow waves washing ashore. When she opened her eyes, she saw infinite bright stars perfectly reflected from the heavens all across the calm water.

    

    Fran never returned to the Hebrides, but on this day in her beloved shop, as on many days since, her thoughts return to "catching the stars," that night--a memory of magic--wading into the sea, cupping the stars in her hands, even as they slipped through her fingers back into the dark water.