Although I know that Mrs. Chryar would have me call her Georgia now, in my mind, I still think of her mostly as Mrs. Chryar – as she was to me when I met her long ago in Germany; when her daughter and I became best friends forever in elementary school. She wasn’t just my friend’s mother, though. She taught me piano as well, and through my lessons with her, I got to know Mrs. Chryar as an amazingly kind and patient teacher, and lover of music and education. She passed all those qualities on to her daughter Jacque, who is still my oldest and dearest friend.
Georgia has been on mind (musical reference intended) lately, as she has been very, very ill. I haven’t seen her for many years (too long), since my last visit to Texas in 2005.
Mrs. Chryar and all things lyrical and musical are eternally intertwined in my mind…and as Forrest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that.”
Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow