I have discovered another fascinating occupation for myself. My list of future careers, including Traveling Window Washer and Subway Driver, has been appended with Church Bell Tuner. How cool is that? Today in the snowy rain a single soul (of course I pictured a hunchbacked male, thank you Disney), played the major scales on the enormous old bell at the Arlington St. Church. Over and over, each time the pitch changing slightly. I found myself squinting, urging him a half note sharper; the last dong was quite sour no matter how many times he... he what? Twisted something? Raised and lowered something? How does one tune bells? I have to say I'm completely fascinated by this. I must learn to tune a church bell.
I imagine being up in that tower -- there is a clock, as well -- the enormous grinding gears, pigeons. Hell, I bet there's even ravens and gargoyles. Large flat pale stones, cold and darkness, ancient copper or whatever it is they make bells out of.
When I was growing up in Connecticut, my family and I went to a Nice White Congregational Church, where they had a mighty fine bell. Not nearly as ominous and gothic as the Arlington St. Church bell. More of a Nice New England Family bell. There was this tiny door in the back of the church, it looked like a pantry or cabinet of some sort. I remember opening it one day out of curiosity, and finding the rope. Thick as my arm and reaching all the way up through the open shaft toward the sky. It was attached to the bell.
There was only one man who rang the bell. Each Sunday, at 11:00, after the service, he would slide open the door and slip into the shaft. The best part was, he was a little person. A dwarf. Even at age 8, he was smaller than me. And when he rang the bell, the rope would yank him off his feet and carry him halfway up into the sky through the bell shaft. I thought that was the greatest sight I'd ever laid eyes on.
One Sunday he handed me the rope.
It was my favorite day in church, even more so than when I got to hold the real baby in the Christmas Nativity. Or the candlelight ceremony with acoustic guitars. Or when I made my confirmation and didn't ever have to go back there again. The walls of the shaft were old brick, crumbling. They scratched my arms as I was launched. On the way down, the gratifying clang was accompanied by the brief stomach drop of a free fall.
Whenever I think of church, I can smell good musty odor of old bibles, the cool darkness, the velvet cushion the bell ringer would sit on while waiting for his time to show off. The way I watched his silhouette shoot upwards between the narrow walls, and how it would make my head vibrate with sound waves.
I wonder if they use a giant tuning fork? Like, the size of a pitchfork? I'll let you know when I find out. Maybe you could come to my audition.
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