Fun Flower Facts

“I think it’s best if I take you, Sam.”

His mother’s tone suggests he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, but Sam persists. “The invitation is addressed to me, Mom. I can get to Forest Heights by bus and then it’s just a ten-minute walk to his house. I’ve already looked into it.”

He knows his mom wants to take him because she wants to see, “The House”, the house that would have been hers now if his great grandparents hadn’t been such fools. At least, that’s how she tells it.

Sam turned sixteen this past Wednesday and on that day he got a birthday card in the mail from his Great Uncle Chris. He’s never met this uncle, only heard a few stories about him. He certainly didn’t know his uncle knew he existed or when his birthday was.

The card was impersonal and had simply been signed, Christopher Drummond, as though it was a document of some sort. Included with the card was an equally terse handwritten note that said, “In honor of your birthday, I would relish the opportunity of meeting you. Please come to my home this coming Saturday at two o’clock. 521 Cedar Drive.”

“Not even an ‘opportunity’ to decline,” his mother grumbled when she read the note, “Typical! I certainly never received a birthday card from dear Uncle Chris.”

Sam is beside himself with curiosity about his disparaged uncle. “What kind of man says, relish the opportunity,” he wonders? He’s been through countless scenarios as to why Uncle Chris might want to meet him, each more elaborate than the last. He was up, showered and dressed by ten this morning, something he hasn’t done on a Saturday since forever. He’s looking forward to his impending afternoon adventure but doesn’t dare say as much to his mother.

“He won’t notice what you’re wearing, Sam. He’s much too self-absorbed to notice anyone but himself.” His mother’s contemptuous sneer while he eats his breakfast is unnerving.

“I’m going to practice for a while,” he mumbles, knowing that his mother won’t bother him when he’s playing the piano.

Sam doesn’t have to catch a bus until one which gives him plenty of time to play. He launches into Scriabin, knowing his mother isn’t fond of the dissonances and will likely retreat, either upstairs or to the garden, before long. After the first run through he sets the timer on his phone, knowing that if he doesn’t set it he’s apt to lose himself in the music and miss catching the bus on time which would mean his mom would have to drive him to Forest Heights. He’s determined to meet Uncle Chris alone.

As anticipated, his mom is not on the main floor when his alarm goes off. He grabs an apple from the fruit basket on his way to the patio door where he knows, if he can get onto the deck without his mom seeing him, he can leave the yard undetected as well.

It’s a forty-minute bus ride to Forest Heights, a district he’s never been to, at least that he can remember. He’s certainly heard of it though; a well-established neighbourhood in the center of the city where his maternal grandmother grew up with her brother, Chris. He’s seen a couple of pictures of the house he’s going to, a beautiful two-story, brick colonial built in the 1930’s. His great grandparents left the home to Uncle Chris in their will. Their daughter, his grandmother, was bequeathed an equivalent value in investments.

“Real Estate value increases," his mother has told him more than once, "the stock market fluctuates.” Sam isn’t really interested in money and investments. He just nods, hoping it looks like he is.

Sam’s mother, like him, is an only child. Had Sam’s grandmother inherited the home his mother covets, then his mom would own it now, she's sure of it. The subject of the Forest Height’s house has been an obsession with her since Sam’s dad left them four years ago and his mom found herself looking for her first job ever.

"I guess I'll soon see what the big deal is," he thinks, hopping off the bus.

It’s a warm spring afternoon. Sam regrets wearing a cotton shirt when he notices its wrinkles sticking to him after the lengthy ride. He arrives at the house a few minutes before two and he still feels damp, not sure now if his sweat is from the heat or him being nervous, so he decides to walk around the block in an attempt to collect his composure.

At five minutes past two, his still slightly trembling finger presses the doorbell and within seconds he is looking directly into the crystal blue eyes of a slim, white-haired man who is his height. “You must be Sam,” he says with a warm, baritone voice.

“Hi, Uncle Chris,” Sam manages, realizing he’s feeling even more shy than nervous.

“Christopher. I haven’t been called Chris since I was, well, your age,” he smiles. “Just call me Christopher. Please, come in.”

The home is meticulous and looks as though it’s been decorated for an interior design magazine but that’s not what grabs Sam’s immediate attention. In the front room to his left, he sees two – two! – nine-foot grand pianos and shelf upon shelf of music books. Past the pianos, in what might once have been a dining room, is seating arranged to face the pianos just like in the images of ninteenth century home music parlours that he’s seen in music history books.

Mixed in with the books, he suddenly notices a Juno Award Trophy serving as a bookend. Sam is speechless. “Christopher has a Juno!?” he silently squeals, “Mom never mentioned that!”

Christopher is watching Sam take it all in with amused silence, pleased that he has noticed the music room first.

Sam enters the room reverently, his feet pulling him toward a wooden, antique mantle radio on a side table. Beside the radio is a small, framed painting of a single marigold in a vase.

“Ah! I see Mary Gold has introduced herself to you,” Christopher chuckles. "She's quite adept with her allure." He sits at the piano furthest from Sam and plays a chord progression that Sam thinks he recognizes but can’t quite place until Christopher begins to sing in what Sam hopes is meant to be a parody of the pop singing style.

“Mary Gold. Push that Beatle music far away. I don’t ever want to have to play, that awful music any day.”

Christopher then meanders up and down the piano keys, embellishing the familiar Yesterday verse with rhapsodic, Rachmaninoff inspired harmonies, leaving Sam spellbound with a gaping jaw and even wider eyes.

“Can you teach me how to play like that?” he blurts before the final chord has completely melted into the room.

Christopher claps his hands together like a delighted child. “I learned about you from my colleague, Nan, who you played for at the music festival in April. She said you were very promising! Mary Gold is a little inside joke between Nan and I.”

“I did a little investigative work on you,” he continues, answering some of Sam’s unspoken questions. “Your teacher, Robert, was one of my protégés at the university.”

“You teach at the University?” Sam asks.

“Did Sam,” he states matter-of-factly. “Now I am focusing all my time on performing, before it’s too late,” his voice trails toward the window he gazes through in pensive silence.

After what seems an eternal silence to Sam, Christopher asks to hear him play. Sam loves playing piano, especially for those who understand and appreciate classical music. Soon he is having the best music lesson of his life.

At four thirty, Christopher announces that he must prepare for a dinner date. Before leaving, Sam has agreed to come to Christopher’s home every second Saturday for supplemental lessons, something his instructor Robert has already agreed to. He’s buzzing with excited anticipation of more inspirational time with Christopher and with sugar from a decadent birthday cupcake Christopher presented him with and hasn’t noticed that his mother is waiting for him outside the house in her SUV. When he hears her call to him, his euphoric bliss dissipates instantaneously.

“I’m impressed with the landscaping at the front of the house,” she announces sarcastically as he slumps into the seat beside her. She assaults Sam with questions all the way home and incessantly peppers their usually silent dinner with Uncle Chris memories. Every question and comment is about the house or unusual Uncle Chris behaviour.

“Mom said she thought he must be autistic when that came on the social radar,” she muses. “Did you notice him float off into space? ... Is all the furniture inside really old? ... Is he a hoarder?”

Sam stays silent, just lets her ramble. He’s astonished by how little she knows about Christopher and finds this lesson to be more revelatory than what he anticipates studying music and the piano with his uncle in the months ahead will be. He won’t say a thing about today or his upcoming lessons for as long as he can manage, just let her flow with her inner music until it's out of her system.