THE SOUND OF MUSIC

There was a time not too long ago when I literally turned off whatever I had felt about my childhood and background. I don't know exactly when that time began. Nor do I know when it ended. Suffice it to say that the older I get the more I seem to reach for what I had once abandoned.

A Brazil friend equated my feelings with the "Salmon Syndrome".
That magnificent fish, after wondering for years in the high seas, seems to find its way home to the small stream of its birth to procreate and then die. Unfortunately, unlike the salmon, man can not always pick his day and place of death. His memory systems, unlike those of the salmon, are given to him perhaps to help him survive life until he meets the final eventuality.

I had occasion recently when, thanks to my background and memory, I managed to appear sane to those around me at a time when my life was in painful turmoil.

I had come home for lunch and to see how my dog was doing. Daisy had not been well, and both my wife and I had known for some time that her days were numbered.

As I came up the driveway Daisy greeted me, her tail wagging happily, her long floppy ears almost touching the ground as she moved. She accompanied me into the house and, as was her custom, waited in expectation for me to open the refrigerator and give her the usual cheese where lately I had been hiding her digitalis pill. Suddenly she started foaming at the mouth. Her breathing became heavy and I could see by looking in her eyes that she was in pain.

I called the veterinarian, who confirmed my suspicions. Daisy was having a heart attack. I picked her up and took her to the car. Three minutes later we were at the vet's. I took her into a small cubicle where she had been previously in happier times. She continued to struggle in pain.

The doctor looked at me for a decision. I had no choice. "Will it hurt?" I asked.

"No." He replied.

I nodded affirmatively. The doctor prepared the needle. I tried to comfort her as an assistant held her.
Suddenly, as if she were performing inside my head, I could hear the beautiful voice of the Portuguese singer, Madalena Iglesias, "O Tempo, volta p'ra tras, da-me tudo que perdi...Tem pena e da-me a vida - a vida que ja vivi..." (Time, return and give me all I've lost...Have pity and give me life - the life I've already lived...)

Within less than two minutes from the time we had entered the doctor's office Daisy was dead. The doctor exited leaving me behind with her body.

Ours had always been a strange Master-Dog relationship. I first saw Daisy at the St. Louis Humane Society when she huddled in a corner frightened of other dogs and of everyone else. I called her and she came. When I got home that afternoon I told my wife about the incident. I must have done a good sales job, for the following Monday Kathy went to the Humane Society and brought her home. Our daughters named her Daisy. She seemed to have liked the name, for she responded to its sound immediately.

She had been a sickly dog when Kathy brought her home, but it wasn't long before we got her back to health. She became part of our family immediately.

Daisy seemed to have learned about all of us from the start, discovering that our middle daughter, Jane, had never cared for dolls, or toy animals. On the other hand she loved live dogs, no matter what breed. It wasn't too long after Daisy came to live with us that my wife and I found Daisy sneaking an afternoon nap now and then on Jane's bed. She never did that on anyone else's during the almost six years she lived with us.

She also seemed to know what my brown suitcase meant - another long overseas trip for the master. She would follow me everywhere in the house the night before my departure, her sad basset hound eyes droopier than usual. According to my wife it would take Daisy days before she'd get over my departure.

In a way, Daisy helped me write many of my Portuguese Times columns. She and I would spend evenings in my office, often until quite late. Having her close somehow made whatever I had to do a happy task. Even those hours when I despaired for an idea seemed to move faster when I had Daisy look at me as if she were my Father Confessor.

Suddenly, at about 1:20 p. m., April 8, 1976, Daisy could look at me no longer. A part of me lay on a clean metallic table, while the other parts, those that could cry and move, seemed to ask: "Why me, God? Why me?" The more I asked, however, the stronger I could hear Madalena Iglesias's song vibrate in my mind. Then, as the music continued, I touched Daisy for the last time and walked out of the cubicle into the outer office and, from there, to the parking lot and my car. I got in and drove home as if nothing had happened. For some reason, however, I changed my suit before returning to the office.

For the next two days Madalena Iglesias's song seemed to repeat itself several times. It followed me everywhere.

In my travels I've often heard many different songs in many languages. I have even been fortunate to meet some of the artists who have sung them. I have never met Madalena Iglesias. I have, however, met the meaning of her haunting plea. Her music, marchlike and strong, was the kind I had enjoyed as a boy. Thanks to its rhythms and lyrics, I was able to face the fact that I was not alone, even though by the time I heard her, I stood in Midwestern America, as far away from my boyhood as I would ever be physically. Yet it was only when the song's Portuguese lyrics penetrated my mind that the boy who had at one time abandoned his background because he considered it weak was able to face the fact that time doesn't return, although it does leave strong memories as tokens of the lives we've lived. Thanks to that realization, I was able to accept my feelings.

Later that day, however, when only my family could see me, I broke down and cried.

Manuel L. Ponte
St. Louis Missouri