Charles Ives was ill. He knew it was only a matter of time – Weeks? Months? – before his time on this earth was to end. He stared at the music he was trying to complete. Inspiration continued to elude him, as it had for the past twenty-five years.
“Nothing sounds right,” he opined. “Yet there is that strange music in my head, as if it’s a call. It’s not mine. What is it?”
Chuck was troubled by it, and could not concentrate. He called to his wife, “Harmony, do you hear it?” But she could not.
The intertwining melodies, the strong bass line, what did it all mean?
“I must go.” He flatly stated. “I must go to California.”
“Charles,” his wife warned. “You’re not well. You can’t travel across the country.”
“But I must. I cannot explain the call. This is as important as anything I’ve ever done.”
Charles insistence was frightening to Harmony, yet she could see that he would not be sated otherwise. In the morning, he was flying to California.
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