Remember Fitz
LETTER FROM FITZ - 2000
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"You remember that wonderful book by Cahill called "How The Irish Saved Civilization"?
Ah, 'twas music that did it!"
- Judy Collins
(Wolf Trap Concert, June 2000)
Dear Friends:
I'm not sure that Mr. Cahill would agree with Judy Collins' take on his research. But I know what she meant. I suspect we all do. There have been so many times in my life when a musical experience has restored sanity and grace to a situation gone mad, or when music has reassured me that tenderness and loveliness are still possible in a world overwhelmed by harshness and ugliness. (William Styron, the author, insists that it was overhearing a snatch of Brahms' "Alto Rhapsody" that pulled him back from the brink when he was about
to take his own life!) The power of music to "save civilization" is always more apparent to me in this season than in any other. I can be fatigued from work, frenzied with busyness, fed up with politicians, or feuding with my own demons. And then I'll hear Mahalia Jackson singing "Silent Night", or Leontyne Price singing "Ave Maria", and my heart will surrender once again, for the umpteenth time, to the sacrament of light shining through the darkness.
As the days dwindle down I want to share two civilization saving moments with you from the year that is ending.
One afternoon in January, I was making my way down the ramp that leads to St. Anthony's Dining Room. (50 years ago cars drove down it to park. Since then 28 million hungry people have walked down it to eat lunch.) It was a cold, rainy day and you
could feel the heightened anxiety among our homeless guests. As I neared the basement lobby I realized someone was playing the piano. I recognized the tune: Dr. Thomas Dorsey's great gospel song, "Precious Lord, take my hand; lead me on, help me stand."
My heart went tight up to my throat. (Ever since Mahalia sang that song at Dr. King's funeral, it has been one of my favorites.) When I got to the lobby I saw a small circle of folks who'd gathered around the piano and were singing, swaying like a choir in church. But it was who was playing that grabbed my heart and squeezed. Diane and I have known each other a long time. She has been on the streets for years, a victim of het mental illness. (No social worker has been able to guide her through the labyrinth for assistance without her paranoia sabotaging the effort. On her good days Diane might be anyone's idealized grandmother: sweet, tender, sentimental, warm, caring and big-hearted. But her bad days, which are relatively few, have managed to get her "86'd" from just about every agency and shelter in the Bay Area.) I didn't even know Diane knew how to play the piano. (How would a homeless woman in her 60's ever get a chance to practice?) But there she sat, wearing multiple levels of clothing, with two large, plastic garbage bags containing all her worldly possessions alongside the bench. And she was so full of dignity and grace, with a serenity and soulfulness that would have done any cathedral organist proud. As she sang and prayed for courage and guidance, I watched and listened, and was inspired and restored.
We BROADWAY BABIES did our annual gig in Berkeley in August. A few weeks later we did a show for the ladies at St. Anthony's Madonna Residence. (It's a spanking new building, with 50 apartments for senior women, who might otherwise be homeless.) To be totally immodest: they loved us! The best audience we've ever had! We'd finished the scheduled show, and were taking a bow. As the applause was subsiding, a lady called out, "Please come back and do this again before we all die!" I was haunted by the bluntness of that woman's invitation the rest of the night, and still the next morning when I got to work and opened my email. A former student, and lifelong friend, had sent me something he knew would touch my heart. He couldn't have known how powerfully, given the previous night's experience. Talk about karma! Talk about providence! (It's too good not to share. You'll find it enclosed.)
My friends, I hope and pray that civilization gets saved for you often during this hopeful season and throughout the new year.
Know that you are in my heart!
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-Fitz
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THE CAB RIDE
(Author Unknown)
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Twenty years ago, I drive a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.
What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry.
Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, and made me laugh and weep.
But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.
I was responding to a call from a small brick four-plex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory in the industrial part of town.
When I arrived at 2:30am, the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
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By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.
All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters.
In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.
She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you." I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.