I fervently hoped that taking piano lessons would remove the trauma of my dancing deficiencies, but it was obvious to both me and Mrs. Shirley, who drew the black bean and became my piano teacher, that I had no innate ability and almost no interest in practicing.
"Curve your fingers," she'd say kindly. "You haven't practiced this week, have you?" she chided.
Practicing bored me, and was also incredibly frustrating. Our decrepit old upright piano had only about half of its keys working properly, and about every seventh key was nonfunctional.
We kids suppressed laughter as our grandmother, playing hymns in our living room on Sunday afternoons, hit sour notes and keys that wouldn't work, stopped to say a little bad word, and resumed playing.
"Rock of ages, cleft for me, bad word," she'd sing, then angelically, "let me hide myself in Thee."
I felt like God would forgive her for expressing her frustration. That piano really could make a saint curse.
My favorite part of the half hour music lesson was the tiny piece of penny candy we chose from a small glass bowl at the end of the lesson. Sometimes there was only one choice, usually peppermint, but occasionally lemon, lime, or strawberry pieces were heaped in the bowl. Selecting had to be fast, for if it took too long, Mrs. Shirley gave a gentle reprimand. "Hurry up, Rebecca is waiting."
The next student, Rebecca, was waiting outside in the small front parlor that served as a reception area. She had golden ringlets and deep blue eyes, but she looked bored and lifeless as a rag doll. She slouched on the green vinyl setee, resting her feet on one of the two straightbacked chairs pushed under the wooden table where all students were systematically tortured in the spring preparing for music theory exams.
My practice room wasin a tiny hallway under the stairs, which I perceived was reserved for the worst students. Mrs. Hutchinson, the owner of the studio, taught the best students in the spacious living room, with its expansive paned windows, sunlight streaming through, and two beautiful mahogany grand pianos.
There were unsubstantiated rumors that she used a wooden ruler to tap the errant hands of students who made mistakes while playing, and once made someone bleed, the red blood staining the beautiful ivory keys. That rumor alone made it okay with me that I was assigned to the small, dark stairwell with its old upright piano.
There was another teacher, Mrs. Olson, who taught in the dining room, a large comfortable room, but with no pleasant window light, its heavy draperies blotting even the hint of sun. She was my favorite, kind and friendly.
She looked like a mother, slim, with slightly graying soft hair loosely touching her ears, wearing her just-below-the-knee cotton plaid skirts and cotton front-buttoning blouses. She was everything Mrs. Hutchinson was not. I assessed that she was the Tier 2 teacher, for those students who couldn't quite cut it in Tier 1 with Mrs. Hutchinson.
Mrs. Hutchinson never had any kids, and it's a good thing, because she would probably have been mean to them, snapping a ruler on their fingers while they practiced endlessly on the piano until the performance suited her.
Barely five feet tall, her red hair matched the rouge carefully applied in a big circle on each cheek, and her coiffure looked like someone rolled her hair, but forgot to comb it out. Tight, like her personality. She did everything precisely, quickly, with intention. She looked like a musical drill sergeant at a piano boot camp.
My teacher, Mrs. Shirley,was the youngest and prettiest,and it was whispered that she had a 24 inch waist, but I think she got the worst room to teach in and the worst students, like me. All the teachers seemed like they were scared of Mrs. Hutchinson, the way they answered her with "Yes ma'am," any time she asked them anything, like they were kids and she was the only adult.
Making our practice room even worse was a little half bath squeezed in that tiny hallway. Sometimes students would knock on the door and ask if they could use the bathroom. Of course she wasn't going to tell them they couldn't, but it did distract us a little, all that water running and toilets flushing. And some of the kids stayed in there, just playing in the water, running it for a long time, just to pass the time.
I got through lessons by being respectful and telling the truth about not practicing, which Mrs. Shirley knew anyway. After a year or two, she figured out that I was never going to practice much, so we muddled through the lessons, and she told me goodbye, knowing that I would probably not touch a piano until the next lesson. I sure wasn't going to be the kid she bragged about, but I didn't really care. I was increasingly busy with other activities and things that interested me more.
It never really bothered me until one day waiting for my lesson, I noticed that Rebecca, who was my age and had perfect hair, skin, and eyes, but was limp, had Book 3 while I was still in Book 1, which I surreptitiously slipped under my hips until she left to enter the stairwell for her lesson.
I grew to hate the Saturdays every quarter when we met at the Hutchinson Piano Studio for "Club". It didn't feel like a club to anyone but Mrs. Hutchinson. I was pretty sure that no one wanted to be a member, if you gauged it by the looks on the faces of the participants, who looked either quietly terrified, mad, miserable, or bored.
Everyone had to wear nice dresses and Sunday shoes, and the boys wore white shirts and ties. Our mothers came, but I noticed no dads ever came. I guess they had important work to do on Saturday.
Each student played one piece. The other students clapped politely, sitting straight up in dining room chairs that had been pulled into the room for the event, forced smiles on their faces. The mothers of course clapped too, but Mrs. Hutchinson bounced around the room, words of encouragement fairly bubbling from her lips, clapping enthusiastically for each child as if each were her favorite.
Her conduct seemed so out of the ordinary that several of the children shot confused looks at her as they made their way back to their chairs after performing. She always exuded energy, but on these days, her wall to wall smile, endless greeting and talking, and extra springy step on her stiletto heels, made her seem like a red-headed bobblehead doll.
"Well, that was nice, wasn't it?" my mother said, as we descended the five steps from the tall porch.
"I really liked the cookies," I offered, trying to avoid conflict.
"You played really well." she kept on. Couldn't she just let it rest?
"Do you think so?" I asked, not really caring if anyone thought I played well since I was three books behind the others my age.
"Well, I'm so proud you can play with both hands," she said.
"They won't let me play with my toes," I said sarcastically, drawing a warning look from her.
"Well, just take one more year," she said conciliatorily.
Had I been psychic, I would have said no, because she suggested the same thing every year for the next ten years, and somehow I caved in to her wishes even though I believe I was just in Book 4 by the time I finally ended my own suffering, when I was 16, almost a senior in high school. No more "Club", no more practicing, no more lessons, no more theory, no more music guild, no more Bach or hymn festivals.
My last day of piano lessons, I felt like I had heaved a giant turtle from my back. And as I walked down the piano studio steps that day, I imagined I was leaping in the sand, following the giant creature into the surf.
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1 comment:
Made me laugh out loud.
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