An elderly gentleman knocked on my door a few weeks ago. He was visiting his old hometown of Buffalo from the West Coast. He grew up in my house.
As he stood at the door, he assured me that he wasn’t a salesperson, politician, religious recruiter, or criminal. In his own words, he was just a “sentimental old man” who would like to see his childhood home one more time.
I was torn. He seemed like a nice person, but should I really let a stranger in my house? Well, for whatever reason, my intuition told me that he was okay. So, I went with it and let him in. (I know, it wasn’t very smart, but that’s the decision I made in the moment.)
Anyway, upon entering, he immediately noticed the piano and three violins in my living room.
“Do you play?”
“Well, I do play piano, but not violin. I inherited those old things years ago. They’re in disrepair. I should take them in someday to see if they’re worth anything.”
“Oh yes, you should! They could be nice pieces! Do you like Mahler?”
And that was the moment we bonded. Composer Gustav Mahler is one of my favorites. The first time I ever performed with a professional orchestra was in Mahler’s Symphony No. 8 (The Symphony of a Thousand). Christopher Keene conducted. I was an undergraduate Political Science Major, but singing Mahler changed all that. Being part of Mahler’s colossal universe of sound convinced me that music was my calling. I switched to a Music Education major the following semester.
He enjoyed my Mahler story. His was equally life-changing. When he was courting his wife years ago, he took her to a concert in Pittsburgh. Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 was on the program. He and his future wife fell in love with Mahler that evening, and perhaps with each other.
As we toured the house, he told me stories about things that happened in this room and that, what used to be here and there, and what had been changed or remodeled. He even told me that there could be a hidden staircase behind my kitchen wall!
When it was time to leave, he glanced one more time into the living room.
“That’s where my mother used to play piano. Right in that corner.”
I saw the tiny tear well up in his eye.
“Well, thank you for letting this crazy old man see his childhood home one more time. I really appreciate it. It means a lot to me. So long.”
He snapped a quick picture outside to share with his sister, and that was it. He was gone.
Two weeks later, I received a letter from the West Coast. It was from him. He thanked me for the tour, reminded me of some secrets of my house, and invited me to contact him should I ever be on the West Coast. Most poignantly, he thanked me for letting him see his childhood home one more time. I will also thank him, not just for the fascinating visit, but for the reminder to listen to Mahler . . . many more times.