Tonight I begin with something Elizabeth Sherrill penned:
My husband and I had never heard Itzhak Perlman perform in person tll that evening at Avery Fisher Hall in New York City, We knew from record liner-notes that he was crippled by polio at age four, but nothing prepared us for his awkward, lurching walk across the stage, supported on crutches. He reached the chair beside the conductor's platform, lowered himself onto it, laid down the crutches, unhooked the brace-clasps on his legs, and picked up the violin from its case on the floor.
A moment of tuning, a nod to the conductor, and the orchestra launched into the opening movement of Beethoven's violin concerto. Perlman lifted his bow; the high, sweet solo line soared above the rest. And then there was an ear-piercing ping!
The conductor signaled the orchestra to stop. Silence ensued as Perlman lowered the violin and stared at the broken string. Would the performance be canceled or could a new string be found and attached? Would the virtuoso play on an unfamiliar instrument?
Perlman nodded again to the conductor and put the violin back beneath his chin. The orchestra resumed playing; the solo voice sang out, plaintive and angelic. You can't play a violin on three strings! What kind of transposition, invention, substitution did it take to produce that perfect sound?
At the final note, all of us were on our feet, cheering, clappng, shouting for the sheer joy of the performance we'd witnessed. When the pandemonium died down, Perlman fastened his leg clasps, picked up hiscvrutches, stood up, and said with a bow to the audiennce, and a smile, "Sometimes we have to make music with what we have left"
This story is my inspiration; I hope it is yours as well, sufficient to cause you to continue. Next week, I give you the first chapter of my "Chicken Tales".
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