THE NARRATIVE ARC

Appreciating My Piano Love Affair— From a Perspective of Fifty Years Past

As a teacher, I looked for children’s talent, and reflect on my own

As a high school teacher for a few decades, I’ve watched many children come into their own with their talents. To support a child in a hobby is a wonderful thing. My parents did well, and putting a piano in our home was a gift I’ll never forget.

Children are stunningly honest, if you watch them. If they get excited and bubble about, they’re happy. My eyes lit up with things I loved — books and my piano. I thrummed in tune like a guitar string when I was around music. But first came books and reading!

I was a quiet chubby kid with swollen red eyes. My face was always in a book. We had magazines in the living room, a large bookshelf, and books in every room of the house. Mom had books by her bed, with fancy bookmarks with tassels.

We were Reader’s Digest-in-the-bathroom kind of people. A magazine on the back of the toilet. On the edge of the tub. Five of us lived in that little farmhouse. If someone took too long in the bathroom, it would be knock-knock-knock! Time to stop reading! I gotta go!

The attic was my personal reading space. In the attic, where long wires hung Mom’s fancy dresses she no longer wore — emerald green lace and bright pink tulle covered in plastic — one lightbulb jutted out of the wall, with a long ball chain hanging for on and off.

I’d go into the cold, drafty attic, and yank the chain for the light. There, on the floor of the attic were stacks of old encyclopedias, dusty old blue volumes with treasure inside.

Sitting on the bare wood of the silent attic, I sat and read about politics between Germany and France. The cumulus clouds and what they indicated. The differences between British and American English. The state of Arkansas, and its flower, tree, and unique phrase. The Encyclopedias, the old navy blue children’s set, had belonged to my father.

How I loved those books.

Trees hit the roof, and the wind came in the eaves as I read. My mind, my books, my quiet space in a very crowded home.

And then everything changed. We got a black upright piano.

I grew up with a singing, musical mother. She played the accordion at an advanced level. I know that sounds funny. She was talented, and became one with the instrument. When she played and sang a sad song, her voice became wistful. She moved with the instrument, the bulky black lacquer accordion with its pleated folds.

Mom was half-German. Her mother, a Scottish woman, had married Grandpa when her first husband dumped her. Rose Marie, my mother, was doted on and loved. And in return, she embraced my grandfather’s ancestral roots. German music, German attire, candy, white geese, and a few phrases.

When Mom acquired a piano for our home, she intended to learn to play, recognizing that the accordion was a bit of a specialty instrument. Sometimes people smirked and raised their eyebrows to learn she played accordion. Not me. I was proud! But now, a piano was coming into our house. It was an exciting day.

The piano filled a wall. It was huge, a tall flat black upright grand.

The first thing Mom did was sit down and play “Heart and Soul,” the standard for every person who tries to play a song on the piano. I listened and watched closely. The next day, I sat at the piano myself. I sat for hours, playing the left hand part, then the right. I worked, and worked, and worked.

How was I supposed to join the two hands? Others had done it. I could too. I just tried to join my hands a note at a time, adding the syncopated bits as I could. By that night, I could play it. All the way through.

After dinner, I sat down and played it performance-style for my mom, dad, brother, and sister. We were a very close family, and my dad announced me. They sat quietly as I stumbled through.

They gave me a standing ovation!

“Wow, Deb, that’s really good!” my sister said. She was so kind and sincere. My brother said kind words too. We had ice cream for dessert, and talked about all the cool songs I could learn next.

That night, I overheard Mom talk to Dad.

“I think she has a gift,” Mom said, “She figured that out after watching me play. All on her own!”

Gifted? I was gifted? My life opened up like a vast treasure chest of opportunity!

Within a few weeks, I had a piano teacher. I had beginner’s piano lesson books and weekly lessons. My life had changed suddenly, irrevocably. I was a musician. No longer just a pudgy little bookworm sitting in the attic reading old tomes — I was a pianist. Note: I was in the attic when I wasn’t on the piano.

And for five years, I had weekly lessons and recitals. I wore the blue dress, with my hair curled into ringlets. I sat on the stage and played “Moonlight Serenade,” and then “Für Elise” At the recital, I bumbled my way from the top of the keyboard with a chromatic run at the end, which I felt forever ashamed of. Humility is a fine teacher, and I practiced harder.

All because of a mother who found us an old black piano, and gave me the chance to develop a musical gift.

I’ve played keyboards and synthesizer in bands since I was twenty-one years old. My life has been so deeply enriched with music. A gift. Such a gift from my mom.