Last week I went to a concert. And I thought of my dad. He would have been 95 this June.
Central Park’s Naumburg Bandshell had fallen on hard times when I was a kid. Covered in graffiti and simply looking sad, it would be decades before it would see the elegant restoration it recently received.
On the program: the overture to Mozart’s Le Nozze de Figaro, Louise Ferrenc’s Symphony Number Three, and the glorious Pastorale of Beethoven, one of Daniel’s favorites.
I remember the album cover of Daniel’s copy of the Pastorale from when I was a child; I can’t think of how many times I’ve heard it played over the years; but to hear it live in Central Park, of all places, surrounded by lush and leafy elms from the 19th century? Heavenly.
A cloudless sky. Birds accompanied the glorious flute trills, several school-aged children sat in rapt attention, and an older couple planted themselves on the ground with their perfectly poised charge, most likely a grandchild, who listened to the concert while eating a slice of watermelon.
Daniel gave me the gift of music. I could not be more grateful.