I imagine that the year was 1961…September 11, assuredly…most likely 1961. Earlier in the summer my parents had purchased a used upright piano from some friends and decided that I would begin taking piano lessons that fall. I was an eight-year-old third grader, whose only prior musical knowledge was from the bits of family radio and television of the era and our two to three weekly visits to our a cappella church congregation. We owned a record player, I know, but I cannot conjure the vision in my mind; all I can recall is the mellow voice of Harry Belafonte crooning about his “Kingston Town.”
My father loved to sing, but a severe stuttering impairment rendered him quite self-conscious at the time, and few besides immediate family members ever heard him. My mother, for other unknown reasons, felt she was unskilled musically; however, I remember her singing nursery rhymes and the occasional “Wake up, Little Susie”. I’m betting she loved those dreamy Everly Brothers.
I developed a love-hate relationship with my piano and those weekly lessons. There was great pleasure in mastering a song that I could then perform for my family or friends, but I soon became weary of daily practice and rarely spent more than a few minutes at the keyboard outside of my lesson. My ever hopeful teacher, Mrs. Stagg, praised my tiny improvements and gently chided me to play more at home. However, the seemingly advanced accomplishments of several of my classmates, instead of encouraging me to keep up my practicing, had the effect of discouraging my minimal attempts, and after two years of musical mediocrity, I convinced my parents to bring my lessons to an end.
As I have now come to see, there was more going on through these lessons than I realized. Exposure to written music was having a deeper more positive result in my developing child brain. Concepts of measures and timing, tempo and emotion, chords and key signatures, and notes and rests that consisted of whole amounts or quarters or eighths…even when I was unable to produce the desired melodies or harmonies, I knew what it all meant and could recognize and appreciate it when done well. In fifth grade, when the time came to consider joining in our band program, I had a rather solid foundation in music theory that served me quite well. My sojourn with band lasted for six years and would include a smattering of learning in clarinet, oboe, bell lyre, snare drum, bassoon, tenor saxophone, and bass clarinet. My old nemesis, “practice”, kept me within the confines of the so-so musicians, but the music continued to grow within my soul, ready to blossom on another day.
Piano playing returned to my interests during high school; I’d hear a particularly engaging song on the radio or in a movie and become obsessed with learning it…even though my training had ceased years before. I remember laboring countless hours rehearsing difficult passages from Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water”…until I could play it through entirely and bring even myself to tears. Over the following years the scenario was repeated with Amy Grant’s “El Shaddai”…and a host of others.
When our oldest daughter was in high school, we purchased a used baby grand piano. Olivia was driven to achieve perfection in her playing and was willing to put in the hours of practice to make it a reality. This may be a deep psychological glitch in my brain…but I felt jealous of her determination and commitment. The regret would flit through my thoughts regularly…”If only I had practiced more…at piano…at clarinet…whatever.” I have learned at least one lesson well, however, and that is regret is a pitiful waste of time unless it brings about a change. I began to practice now and then…when Olivia wasn’t around.
The baby grand is long gone…moved away to another state where my adult daughter and 14-year-old granddaughter can play to their hearts’ content. My generous husband indulged me with an electronic piano a few years ago, and, through the magic of headphones, I can replay the difficult bits free of perceived judgment from my hearers, as well as play my beloved pieces at any hour of the day or night. Even a Beethoven sonatina can be irritating at 5:00 a.m. Grandchildren will often ask to play, and I’m quick to indulge when possible, again, thanks to those headphones.
The impetus of this post, though, was what happened on Saturday night. A nine-year-old grandson sat down to play at the keyboard, and after a few minutes said, “Gram, can you teach me to play?” It was well after 10:00 p.m. I was babysitting while his parents were out for a date night. I was up past my bedtime, but that question struck a nerve.
“Why yes…yes, I can.”
Filed away in my lesson books, sheet music, and hymnals I found my original Schaum beginner lesson book. Penciled in on the top right-hand corner of each page are the still visible dates when each lesson was assigned to me by Mrs. Stagg. September 11…probably 1961…but definitely September 11.
I opened the book, took a deep breath, and pondered where to begin. Emilio and I talked for a few minutes, and the lesson began.
I saw the eagerness in his face intensify with each turned page. Within a few minutes Emilio was proudly up to eight-year-old Marie’s “October 2”. No doubt I’ve omitted some background information or rudimentary skill that Mrs. Stagg included…or maybe I was already dragging my feet in 1961.
Curiously monitoring this impromptu lesson was my granddaughter, Ruby. She stood behind the piano bench soaking up her brother’s performance and finally chimed in, “Can I try, too?” Ruby took Emilio’s place on the bench, and the lessons were repeated, to the delight of both children…and the teacher.
I’m feeling rather justified at the moment. That…and a bit more forgiven. My childish lack of persistence and my disdain for repetitious practice were simply me being a child…being eight…in 1961, or thereabouts.
