Lawrence Reid's Do Over Story

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm sponsoring a new contest and giving away five copies of Do Over. all you have to do is tell me what you'd do over. Send me an email at Robinhemley@gmail.com

Below is a do over story from my friend, the well-known linguist Lawrence Reid:


Anything other than a cup of coffee on a hot summer’s day.

I had spent three of the best years of my life, straight out of high school, mixing with a small group of highly motivated young musicians struggling to complete a music degree at what was then, fifty-five years ago, Canterbury University College in Christchurch, New Zealand. Although not a talented musician myself, I had acquired some skill as a pianist and watched with awe, as one of my best friends competed for, and won the piano concerto contest which gave him the right to tour the country with the National Symphony Orchestra, performing Grieg’s A minor piano concerto. I had worked on the concerto myself, but knew I would never have mastered it well enough to even enter the first stage of the competition.
Growing up on the other side of the tracks, in Sydenham, one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city, my first purchase, on time payment, as soon as I got out of high school was a new piano, on which I used to teach the neighborhood children how to play. It provided me with enough income to pay the monthly fee for my piano, and to buy the scores I needed for my classes at the University. But as I looked to the future, I decided to re-evaluate my life. What did I really want to do? I knew first, that even though I would have loved to be a performer, I simply didn’t have the talent for it. Secondly, I knew that even though I enjoyed teaching, I felt guilty about taking money from parents whose children had no interest in the instrument, and who came to see me every week at the insistence of their parents, and apparently without ever having practiced the work that had been assigned them the previous week, and the week before that. Was that what I really wanted to do, month in and month out, in a small, back street studio, in a little town, at the bottom of the world?
The answer was clear. I needed to break away from it all, and begin anew at something I wasn’t sure I even knew what. The opportunity came at just the right time. My oldest brother had gone to Australia several years earlier, and sent me an invitation to be the best man at his wedding. The biggest problem however was where I was going to get the money to pay for my fare on the Wanganui, the steamer that plied the Tasman Sea between Wellington and Sydney. I had managed to save some, but it wasn’t enough. It then occurred to me that I probably no longer had use for the piles of music scores that I had diligently studied through the previous three years. Within minutes I had prepared a pin-up sheet with the names of all the works, carefully listed from Beethoven to Bartok, my telephone number and a willingness to accept any offer, as long as it included everything on the list. This I stuck on an announcement board in the music department of the University, and anxiously waited for my first caller.
A few days later it came. A young woman, with a warm, pleasant voice called me and offered a sum that was way beyond anything I could have dreamed possible. And it was just enough to make up what I needed for the fare to Australia. I accepted eagerly, and with pencil in hand asked for her home address so I could personally deliver them to her. When she told me where she lived, I immediately understood why she had offered so much for my music scores. She gave me an address in Fendalton, the suburb where the rich and famous of the city had their homes. I had often ridden through it on my bike, admiring the beautiful homes, set among lush gardens and carefully trimmed hedges. But this would be my first time to set foot within one of the gates.
As the weekend drew near when I would deliver the scores, I was beset by a rush of uncertainty. Was I doing the right thing? I had carefully looked at each piece as I packed it recalling the themes and the harmonic progressions that I had had to memorize for my classes. It was like saying a final goodbye to close friends. It was almost like attending a wake for family member who had suddenly passed away. But the decision had been made, and finally after carefully wrapping and tying them, I attached them to the carrier of my bike and began the five mile ride to Fendalton.
I reached the address, picked up the package, and slowly headed up the long, carefully raked gravel pathway to the door. My heart was beating faster, and I was breaking out in a sweat with nervousness as I pushed the door knocker. And then the door opened, and the young lady who had called me appeared. She was a vision of loveliness, dressed in a light, summery gown, with her long, auburn hair swept back and tied with a bow. She welcomed me with a smile that struck my heart, and invited me in. I begged off, but she insisted. It was a hot summer day, and surely after a long bike ride wouldn’t I like a drink?
She took the package I had brought her, and escorted me into the lounge, carpeted with a magnificent white rug from wall to wall, the windows tastefully covered with drapes in cool summer prints, and a Steinway grand piano against one wall. I had never been in such a luxurious home, and was tongue-tied as her mother came in and offered me a cup of coffee. A maid appeared bearing a tray with a plate of small biscuits, and several fine china cups and saucers into which she poured the coffee. I was never good at small talk, and in this environment and under these circumstances I felt completely out of place.
And then it happened. Was it my nervousness, or did the young lady brush against my elbow, or was it her father offering me his hand? All I remember is the shock, the blood rushing to my face and my stammering my apology as the fine china cup slipped off the saucer I was holding, spilling its contents in a great brown splash across the carpet. I made my retreat as gracefully as I could manage it under the circumstances. I don’t ever remember being paid for the music, although I must have, as I left for Australia and my brother’s wedding the following month. But after all these years, I do remember thinking, that if I could have done it over, I would have asked for a glass of cold juice that I could have held in my hand, rather than accepting a cup of coffee on a hot summer’s day.