My Piano

At the age of three or four, I began begging my mom for piano lessons.  My grandmother played.  My aunts played.  My mother played.  My sister played.  My cousins played.  Nearly every time I was with my extended family, a summer evening would end with an aunt or cousin at the piano, with the rest of us picking out hymns or show tunes for her to play, while the rest of us sang along in multi-part harmony.  These are some of my happiest memories as a child.  And so I wanted to have my part in this wonderful legacy, to be able to make music, to be the one to play the piano.

Finally, when I was at the ripe old age of five, my mother relented, and started my piano lessons.  Mrs Turner was my first teacher.  She lived a few doors down from us, and I remember skipping happily down the street to her house on my lesson days.  In her living room stood the most beautiful baby grand piano I had ever seen.  Her living room was one of those 'museum' rooms that is meant to remain clean, beautiful, and orderly, and only entered on a special occasion.  This made sitting at her piano seem monumental, almost worshipful, and however excited and eager I was as I skipped to her house, I tried to remember to be respectful and solemn as I entered the living room, which I thought of as a sort of shrine to her beautiful piano.  

She always made me wash my hands when I got there, so I would not get the keys dirty, which added to the solemnity of my piano lessons.  But once I had my hands cleaned and was ready to begin, I would hop up onto the piano bench, and sit in awe of the beautiful black and white keys and the massive brown lid rising above the sound board.  I, little me, who was nearly the youngest cousin, the baby sister who was often told I wasn't 'big enough' to do this, or wasn't 'old enough' to do that...got to touch this beautiful piano and make music!  

I often got scolded for swinging my feet as I played, since I was so little my feet didn't touch the floor.  And I usually got corrected for my fingering being incorrect, or for playing too fast through a piece I knew well.  But gradually, the pieces got slightly more complex, and a bit longer.  Slightly more difficult, or a bit more challenging.  I only took lessons from Mrs Turner for a few years before we moved away, but as soon as we moved to a new home, my mom found me a new teacher.  

I remember somewhere around eight or nine, I had grown tired of piano lessons.  I felt trapped inside, practicing while my friends played outside, riding bikes or playing on swing-sets.  It wasn't as if I never did those things, but in my mind, that extra 1/2 hour of practice was torture, and I hated it.  There was one song on a record album my mother owned that I adored, and I told my mom I refused to take piano lessons one day past learning to play that song.  I begged her to let me quit.  She bought me a book that had the song in it, and promised I could quit when I reached Junior High school, if I still wanted to.  

I thought those years were torture, and yet, slowly I progressed.  Some of my songs were recognizable classics or pieces that I would hear my aunts play at Grandma's house.  Sometimes, the classical pieces were several pages long, and I would sit in my mother's basement, playing her old upright piano, imagining myself on a stage in some concert hall, once again playing a beautiful grand piano...but only to ward off the drudgery, of course.  Sometimes, I would try to sing along with a hymn, or make my way through a book full of show tunes, dreaming of when it would be my turn to play for my cousins.....but only because I hated practicing so much.  

And then the summer came when I was getting ready to begin Junior High school.  My mom and I were on a back-to-school shopping trip when she said, 'Well, you're starting Junior High.  I guess we're going to end your piano lessons now.  I promised you we would.'  And that's when it suddenly hit me.  I didn't hate the piano!  I didn't want to quit playing!  I almost had a meltdown, right there in the store!  No!!  You can't quit my lessons! I LOVE the piano!  I LOVE playing!  I LOVE my lessons!!  Mom relented pretty easily, and I only realized years later she'd probably never really intended to make me give up my lessons.  Well played, mom.  

I continued lessons all the way through high school.  My last few years of school, I even took lessons at a studio in a piano store.  There, I was welcome to arrive before my lessons, or stay after for as long as I wished and play any of the gorgeous, gleaming black grand pianos that sat around the showroom.  It was a privilege allowed to very few students, and I was honored.  Once again, playing the piano rose to become something worshipful and special, something I looked forward to at every occasion.  And that song I wanted to be able to play before I quit my lessons?  I played it from memory for my Senior recital, and for a church-sponsored music competition.  I went all the way to international competition with it. 

I may not play every day now, and when I do, it is primarily for my own enjoyment, or for the enjoyment of family or friends.  I'm not a professional pianist, or even a church pianist.  I don't own a grand piano, although it was the very first item I added when I decided to create a bucket list.  But I still adore the piano, and I still love playing.  Mom gave me more than skill at playing an instrument.  All those years of lessons taught me to keep working toward a goal.  To stick with a project, even when it's hard.  That following through with your plan has rewards, even if you don't like the process.  There were so many things I learned besides just how to read music and how to play the piano.  

Playing the piano will always be a joy to me.  And I'm grateful for all the things it has taught me.