Piano…And Me

Next to the James at Berkley Plantation

Sitting on a bench like the one in the image above is fraught with peril…memories come tumbling down, sometimes so fast they don’t stick. I sat on this bench next to the James and memories did come rushing in but, unusually, one did stick: me and my journey with the piano. Starting at the beginning…

One hundred and thirty years ago when people wanted music for entertainment, they had to make that music, no boom boxes, portable radios, AirPods, etc. Look at 1920s high school photos, images of young adults, family gatherings, etc., and you’ll note many people played saxophones, drums, pianos, accordions, all sorts of instruments. Small groups would form to play at dances, festivals and everywhere people gathered. At the heart of this musical ubiquity was the piano, pianos were everywhere. Especially in my family. My great grandparents, on my father’s side, had divorced sometime around 1900, a rare thing in those days. To live, my great grandmother was the “Women’s Dean” at Springfield Normal College in Springfield, a tiny town in South Dakota. Women’s Dean meant she was the house mother to young women in Summit Hall at the school. She taught piano to many of the students, including my grandmother who also became a piano teacher. And that’s where my story starts.

When my family visited my grandparents when I was very young, we’d often listen to my grandma play the piano and sing. We lived six blocks apart so visited quite often. Piano playing in their house was a regular thing, especially during the holidays. When I was 9 my parents bought a “big” house (1,000 sq feet) and my grandmother gave her piano to us. Horror of horrors, I knew what was coming since neither my mom nor my dad played the piano. I was right, shortly after we moved in, “Piano lessons for Lee.”

Oh, the humanity. I did not deserve this! I was new in the neighborhood and the block was filled with kids my age. There was a tree strip at the end of the block, a river just a few blocks away, wide streets for baseball practice, a huge park and playground just blocks away, and so much more. Oh. My. God. A fifth grade boy’s dream. But, not for me.

My grandmother did not want to be my teacher which probably kept our relationship healthy but she did have a recommendation. I’ll call her “Mrs. G.” Now I am sure that Mrs. G was a great person, loved by her neighbors, her family, and her other students. She is probably a bright star in their universe of memories…but not to me. To me, she was a black hole that sucked all the fun out of the world. Well, at least my world.

None of the music was fun. They were called “Handel Exercises” and were meant to be done over and over and over again. Mrs. G sat next to me, encouraging and correcting, all to the time of that infernal metronome…tick, tick, tick. A sound that still brings back those months of fruitless labor. Mrs. G would have me curling my fingers, “Relax!” she’d say as I pounded away on some song from a thousand years ago. Tick. Tick. Tick. And, oh. The performances.

Every once in a while Mrs. G would talk one of the parents into hosting a small recital in their homes so we could play in front of others. Really. I could barely stand to play in front of myself.

And then, the worst. The annual recital. Each of us was expected to play at least two songs in front of all of her students and their parents in the main hall of Huron College. Hall. College. Audience. Not a secret, this was not a thing I wanted to do. However, the fifth grade me got no vote on the matter and so wrapping myself in the cloak of sullenness, off I went. Tick. Tick. Tick. Oh…and one of my songs was a duet with Mrs. G.

Rehearsal. Intimidating. I walked to the college, into the main building and found the auditorium hall. It was easily the biggest room I’d ever been in. Tiny by any standard today, but I led a sheltered life in my early years. And then, the next horror, two grand pianos on the stage. So there I was, standing on the stage, looking out at hundreds of empty seats, imagining them filled with music critics, and wondering what a grand piano was like to play. And naturally, it was different. And it sounded different. Played. Sounded. Different. Tick. Tick. Tick.

In her home, we’d practiced our duet, me and Mrs G. She sat next to me and played the high keys while I played the lows. At the rehearsal, she sat down at the other grand piano and tells me that she will be playing one piano and I the other. O.M.G. I counted the keys. My solo song was “Clair de Lune.” I don’t remember the duet. Of course, no sheet music allowed, all memory.

I’m pretty sure I blacked out during the actual performance, I don’t remember any of it.

Of course, I’d often battle my parents about my fears and loathings. The commitment was awful, I was forced to practice every single weekday after school for an hour. I could hear Ev and the other boys playing 500 in the streets. Every day was misery. Every single day. My mom and grandma would watch…”Curl your fingers! Play with flair, like Liberace!” I’m guessing that’s when I started grinding my teeth.

Sometime in the 6th grade my unhappiness and seething anger boiled over into a confrontation with my parents. Had they taken piano? What did they expect me to do with it? I was missing out on my childhood. And on and on and on. Tick. Tick. Tick. At last they agreed that if I would do one more recital the following year, they would honor my wishes, whatever they might be. Of course, they thought I would have a lightning bolt of inspiration and continue. But for me, it was a gradual loosening of the shackles. I struggled but made it through to the next recital. Again, I have no memories past walking into the Hall.

So now, sixty plus years later? Well, I’d learned to read music. Although, I think the bass clef is an alien interruption. I played guitar in the Bird Dogs, a reasonably successful garage band in the 60s. I played in a folk group at college. I can sit at our piano (oh yes, we have one) and play chord progressions in A, G, and C. So, I guess I got something out of those two years of misery. And this story. But…

I never asked any of our children to learn the piano. Now we have a grandchild! Tick. Tick. Tick.