1995, Traverse City, Michigan

By Katherine Dunham

If you’re a lucky person, as I have been, magical moments happen. They don’t happen often, but just enough to make you carry on.

I was 10 years old and at summer camp. This, however, was not your run-of-the-mill summer camp. This was Interlacken Music Camp in Michigan, where I was surrounded by superlative musicians. There were two camps really: one for the kiddos and one for senior people. Needless to say, I was in the junior camp, stuffed into a cabin, near the lake, with 11 other homesick kids. You know, I’ve never given a thought to the two counselors who slept in the front of the cabin and watched out for us. They were wonderful and very, very patient. I thank them very much.

At the time, I was playing the piano and the clarinet. Once I got over my terrible homesickness I realized it was really a fun place. I made lots of new friends and we played music all day. We practiced for our lessons in little separate rooms that looked like cabins, scattered throughout the woods.

When we weren’t playing music, we were swimming in the lake or eating in the dining hall. The guys who worked in the kitchen (I think they must have been college students) sang barbershop quartets while they worked, so every evening after dinner I went around to the back of the building and peered through one of the windows to watch and listen to them sing. We became great friends. When I caught something awful and had to go to the infirmary they came to my window every day and sang to cheer me up.

I remember a girl named Lois. She also played the clarinet, and we were in constant competition with each other. One week she would be first chair in our little orchestra and the next I would hold the position. For some reason I don’t remember this competition ever affecting our friendship. At least it didn’t have any effect on me.

Our one big job (a privilege, really) was to play taps every evening as we stood next to the flag pole. By this time everyone was in bed and as we played in harmony, this beautiful sound would waft over the campsite. More often than not we broke up giggling so badly we couldn’t play. There were many very odd versions of taps performed that summer.

One magical night, as I remember, at about 1 a.m. - a deep night except for an amazingly bright, full moon - you could hear the loons calling over the lake and a slight breeze sighed through the pine trees. Everyone in the cabin seemed to be fast asleep except for me. I decided at that moment to make one of my biggest wishes come true.

I sneaked out of the back window of the cabin, walked close to the trees to remain invisible in their shadow, and finally arrived at what was called the Bowl. This was the outdoor concert area where all the performances by the grown-ups were given. I was allowed to sing in the big chorus there, but little folks never played in the Bowl. That was for professionals or those who were practically professionals.

As I looked across the seats toward the stage, the biggest, blackest, shiniest grand piano I’d ever seen sat in the middle of that huge expanse, bathed in moonlight. Very quietly, I walked up to the stage steps along the side, climbed up to the stage, and slowly walked across toward my dream. That night I would play in the Bowl where the big people enjoyed this beautiful piano.

I climbed up onto the soft, leathery bench. My feet weren’t even close to the pedals, but at least I was at the correct height for playing. I listened very carefully and heard nothing. I looked around at all the seats and aisles and saw nothing. After a few minutes of looking at the keyboard, I began.

Softly at first, and then, unable to control myself, I let it rip. I played Mozart, Beethoven, Grieg, Bach, and even some Gershwin. I had never heard a sound like that from a piano. When I stopped to contemplate all of this I looked up. My heart almost leapt out of my throat. At the other end of the piano stood a very, very tall man.

My eyes must have been as big as saucers, and I was obviously terrified. He smiled, put his finger over his lips, and came over beside me. He reached out and we shook hands. Watching a chubby little girl with rosy cheeks try to wrap herself around this big piano must have tickled him. He motioned for me to scooch over and then he sat down beside me. I won’t name any names, but this man was and is a very famous pianist who visited the camp each summer. He was my idol.

Would I like to play some four hand piano with him? Would I! Let’s play and then I can die a happy little girl. He explained that he had heard me playing earlier, came to check it all out, and then returned to his cabin for his sheet music. My choices were Mozart or Haydn symphonies for four hands. I chose Haydn because it fit my hands better. And we began.

There I was under the moonlight playing piano with my idol. We made beautiful music that night, playing and singing. I remember what our hands looked like on the keyboard. His fingers were so long and mine were so short, but it worked. That’s the wonderful thing about music. Everyone can participate.

Too soon, it seemed, it was time to go. After shaking hands again and giving each other a big hug, we both went our separate ways. When I got back to the cabin I fell asleep instantly.

No one said anything about this incident the next day, which really surprised me. I assumed I would be in huge trouble. During the days that followed he would find my face in a crowd and wink. Evidently he didn’t tell anyone about our midnight concert.

Katherine Dunham is a writer, classical musician (bassoonist), and archaeologist.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, February 23rd, 2007 | Email This Post

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