Piano Lessons

My very wise mother made sure that I, as well as my brothers and sisters, took at least a few piano lessons so we wouldn't be completely illiterate in the world of music. I don't want to point fingers, but I'm afraid some of her money was wasted on a few of us (sorry, little bro). I must confess that I, too, had moments of rebellion as I occasionally posted "I Quit" signs around the house, hoping my mother would reconsider her investment on such a recalcitrant child. Alas, she ignored my pleas for keyboard freedom and for that I am forever grateful. To this day, playing piano is one of my greatest joys.

Not to say that the journey was easy. My first round of lessons began with a short hike from my elementary school once a week to an old two-story house. I was always sure lightning was going to strike me at any moment as I entered the creaky, dimly lit, smoky interior. Mrs. S. had been teaching little Mozartlings for many, many years by the time I arrived on the scene and I think she was beginning to wane in enthusiasm. I handed her my quarter and started what I hoped would be a successful rendition of My Birthday Party from John Thompson's bright red Teaching Little Fingers To Play. Sometimes I performed my lessons with all the finesse of a fourth grader who had practiced before my arrival and other times, it was quite obvious that I had been lax in my obligations. One particular memory involved me struggling away on a piece that I had no love for (Song of the Volga Boatman, ugh) and just as I was about to hit one more misguided note, I saw Mrs. S. reach for my hand and quickly give me a rap on the wrist. I guess she had hit her quota of sour notes for one day and I was the lucky target. Needless to say, I proceeded with caution after that event.

Two more teachers followed Mrs. S. and I learned more than just piano lessons from each of them. Mrs. VB. made sure my sister and I knew how to play piano without looking down at our fingers. We were given a bib-like drape that covered our hands and asked to play one of our pieces for her. This was before Snapchat so there are no pictorial records of such a fashion statement. I think the bib marked the end of one of my sister's musical career, however. I learned that not all of us are born with the same gene for piano practicing. I moved on to the next teacher by myself.

Mrs. St. was my final piano teacher. She introduced me to the incessant and unwavering tick-tock of the metronome. Rhythm is and always will be my nemesis. I prefer a more free-spirited approach to the keyboard, rubato if you please. Despite my protests, I began each lesson with a series of scale repetitions, synchronized with an ever increasing metronome speed. I probably deserved a few raps on the wrist for my feeble attempts in the beginning, but I somehow managed to work my way through a few years of a very disciplined approach to the art of playing piano. I learned that playing Chopin doesn't start with Chopin. It starts with good old-fashioned drill and skill. Lots of it.

I regret that I never took the time to thank my past teachers (and my mother!) enough for their contributions along the way. In fact, I probably did more grumbling than was necessary. Let me say it publicly now.

Thanks, Mrs. S., Mrs. VB., Mrs. St. and Mom for believing that I could make music out of 88 keys. My years of playing for choirs, soloists, church bands and entertaining in nursing homes are the result of a few good women who invested time and money in my future.

D.C. al fine......