Reader\'s Digest Canada - 10.2019

stopping to give a cursory bow in the

direction of the altar, before sitting

down at the organ bench and arran-

ging the sheets of music he would

need over the next couple of hours.

My father would set the pistons—

buttons that control a prearranged set

of stops, allowing for quick-fire changes

of volume and tone. Then, with every-

thing ready, he would begin the pre-

lude—a stately work, often by Bach.

My father avoided very quiet preludes;

they were too easy for the congregation

to talk over. Lengthy preludes would

send me into a state of fidgeting anx-

iety in case the priest started the ser-

vice before my father had finished

playing. If the priest interrupted him

in midflow, my father would be sure to

take offence. He might get his revenge

by an act of musical sabotage.

For some years, the cathedral had a

“family service” that required him to

forsake the organ bench for a piano

near the congregation and to play a few

popular songs in the guise of hymns. I

recall the crowd at a family service

struggling to keep up with “Blowin’ in

the Wind,” my father racing through

the song at twice the normal pace, his

complexion high, his eyes a gunmetal

blank. I was mortified—for my father,

for my mother, for myself, for Bob

Dylan. How many ears must one man

have before he hears people cry?

Luckily, most of my father’s preludes

would finish without any clerical inter-

ruption. In the ensuing silence, he

would improvise quietly on the theme

of his prelude, avoiding the booming

pedals and using modest string or

woodwind stops, the music curling and

twining and stopping at a moment’s

notice. Then the priest would appear,

announcing the first hymn. My father

would start to play at a healthy volume,

to set a tone of confident praise and

encourage the congregation to sing; he

would alter the volume of the ensuing

verses by using a different set of stops

for each until, eventually, the hymn

reached a rousing end.

Such was the natural order of events

in my boyhood, Sunday after Sunday,

year after year. Each season in the litur-

gical round brought its own music—

Bach’s chorale prelude “Wachet Auf,”

for instance, is invariably played during

Advent, the weeks leading up to Christ-

mas. Yet my father hated to repeat

MY FATHER NEVER REACHED PERFECTION—

WHAT ARTIST DOES?—

BUT HE ALWAYS STRIVED FOR IT.

reader’s digest

86 october 2019