Recognition

In his 1881 book The Violin and its Music, George Hart tells an interesting story about Mozart. Apparently, the composer was in Berlin in 1788, and he decided to attend a performance of his own 'Die Entfuhrung aud dem Serail.' Seating himself near the orchestra, he listened, more and more despondently, as the second violins played D sharp, instead of the natural D specified in his score. Finally unable to remain silent, Mozart began to mutter to himself, and then burst out: "Confound it! do take D." The musicians, hearing the comment, glanced into the audience, and were startled to recognize the composer himself.

At the Green Space (a local playground) yesterday, I was witness to a similarly jarring - if less historically significant - moment of recognition. I was pushing Cleo in her favorite blue swing, and a mom next to me pushed her own 3-year-old in the adjacent black swing. The mom looked familiar to me, and I to her, and we fell to chatting, trying to figure out exactly why we knew each other. From work? No, that wasn't it. From previous play sessions at the playground? Well, that struck us as possible - until, suddenly, her daughter pointed to Cleo and said, clearly, "She's a bluebird."

Well, yes, indeed. Cleo's nursery divides the kids into flocks, by age, and she is indeed a bluebird, like all of the 2-year-olds. And the observant Charlotte, it turned out, is a yellowbird - a member of the next class up. So now we knew how we knew each other. But Charlotte wasn't done - for, she realized, Cleo wasn't holding a certain stuffed monkey, who accompanies her to school every day. "She has George," added Charlotte confidently. Yes, she does, I responded. She brings him to school every day. And Charlotte soon confessed, in turn, to having a favorite blanket.

A pointed comment about the performance; a coincidental moment on the swings: it's surprising what can spark a recognition. Even if a telltale monkey is missing.