The Piano

I will never forget the anticipation leading up to my first piano lesson. I was seven years old and finally at the age where I was allowed to join my sister at Uncle Bill’s house on Saturday mornings. For years, I had sat next to that man at the piano, watching his fingers and wanting to know how he could make that magic with those keys. It was finally my turn. I had come of age to learn the great mysteries of the piano.

My first lesson was no disappointment – as he taught me where middle C was and the subsequent names of the notes of the keyboard. At the end of my lesson, he showed me where the candy jar and the gum drawer was. He told me that I could have 2 pieces of candy and a stick of gum. He knew we all loved the strawberry hard candies but sometimes he ran out and only had butterscotch – his favorite. The best was the gum. Sometimes, I snuck two when he wasn’t looking. I ran home with my music book – “Teaching Little Fingers to Play”  - clutched to my chest, with dreams of becoming the best pianist EVER dancing through my wild, childish imaginations.

Well, as childhood and music lessons go, it wasn’t long before I grew impatient with what seemed to take an eternity to learn to play even “twinkle, twinkle little star.” Every Saturday, I would wake up, do my chores and walk or ride my bike the mile distance to Uncle Bill’s house to have my lesson. Every week, he would ask me if I practiced and every week I would lie and say, “yes”. I wasn’t the best practicer of the piano but I was the greatest memorizer and Uncle Bill knew that. It would only take me a couple of times through and I would memorize those short songs and never look at the notes again. Nothing frustrated Uncle Bill more during my lessons. He knew I’d never progress if I didn’t learn the notes. So every week, I’d show up with my song memorized and play for him. He’d watch me, silently, as I watched my hands play those notes, instead of my eyes watching the notes splayed out on the pages in front of me. He would promptly cover my hands – handicapping me greatly. But he was never critical of my playing – only smiled, hugged me and told me it was beautiful.

I was a slow learner and we went through this process for years until I, gradually, realized that he would never accept my rote memorization of music. He needed to know that I knew my notes. Now, I know, that his goal for me was to be able to sit down and play whatever was written on the page. We never had fancy recitals where I got to perform the songs that I learned, much to my dismay. And as I watched my friends struggle under the pressure of having to pass off levels of music and perform with several other children, I quietly attended what I viewed as second-rate piano lessons. There was never any pressure to perform, although, I had stopped watching my hands and was beginning to understand music better than I understood myself. It was a long time before I understood that what he taught me was much more valuable than simply passing levels through evaluations and completing songs. He was teaching me to make music.

Uncle Bill never made me use a metronome. I don’t even know that he owned one. He didn’t need it. It was, as if, he had an internal metronome that was constantly ticking. As we got older, he would use his silver watch to count the beat and quietly indicate the rhythm with the beat of his hand – as if directing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. He would sit back and listen and verbally warn me when I was speeding up, or direct me to hold a fermata a little longer or correct me when I hadn’t counted those rhythms just right.  He could just feel when something was wrong or off.

I remember the day I quit piano. I was 14 years old. I told my mother that I thought I had learned all he could teach me. By this time, I could sight-read almost all the hymns, children’s songs and was accompanying my parents when they sang at church. Like most teenagers, I knew it all about everything. My mom informed me that I was dead-wrong and that he knew more about music than I would ever know about anything but told me that I would have to be the one to tell Uncle Bill I would no longer be making my weekly pilgrimage to his house. I think she thought I’d back-out, knowing how disappointed he would be. Because I’m stubborn, I marched to his house had my final lesson and with the resolve of a field mouse, quietly told him I was quitting and stammered out some lame excuse about being too busy. He let me suffer through my pathetic explanations and without a word, nodded his head; however,  I will never forget the look in his eyes. He wanted me to be good at the piano and he was determined that this would not be the last lesson we had.

Uncle Bill never pushed the piano on me. However, by this time, Uncle Bill was at our house weekly for Sunday dinner. I was being asked to accompany my parents, my sister, the youth at church, frequently, and was always forced to practice – lest I make a fool out of myself in front of 300 people. These were my evaluations. We’d often rehearse on Sundays and he would silently stand behind me – watching and listening, occasionally correcting a rhythm or note. At the end, he would always smile, hug me and tell me it was beautiful. And when he would sit in the audience and listen to me play, he was always the first one to congratulate me with a smile and hug and always the word, “beautiful”. I knew he had listened because he would always tell me that he could hear where I’d had a bobble here or missed note there but I’d moved through it and kept up with whomever I was accompanying. He would give me a little lesson right then to help me know how to fix it the next time but he was never critical – only positive and loving. I could always see the pride in his eyes and for me, that was enough to make me want to play and practice on my own. As I improved, he was always there, encouraging me, offering little tips and tricks – continuing my music lessons with a hug, a smile and a “beautiful”.

I grew up sitting next to Uncle Bill on the piano. I would turn pages for him. I would listen to him tell stories about learning the piano from his mother. The piano meant the world to him. When I got married and moved away, the first question he would ask on return visits was if I had kept up with the piano. I told him that I had and that I was also teaching lessons a little bit. I could see the pleased look in his eyes and that, in turn, pleased me. I knew it was so important to him and I wanted to make him proud. But more than that, I wanted to show him that he had not only passed on his knowledge for the piano to me, but the passion and the love for it.

I can’t sit at my piano with my children without thinking of Uncle Bill. I hear the stories he would tell me, I hear his laughter and I hear his admonishments in my ear as I cover my own children’s hands and remind them to “watch the notes”. I can feel his presence behind me as I play, telling me it’s beautiful and I can feel the urgency to pass on the legacy he freely passed on to me. I have always regretted quitting my lessons and being so arrogant as a teenager to not fully understand the gift that Uncle Bill possessed to see, feel and produce beautiful and powerful music. As I sit with my children, I know there is so much I don’t know and frequently, I’ve wished I could turn to him and ask him questions that I know he had the answers to. And while I know it frustrated him when I quit lessons, I also know he never gave up on me or quit teaching me.

I never became a concert pianist  but I love the piano. I love playing the piano. I love teaching it to my children. I love hearing it played in my home. I love Uncle Bill for giving me the love, passion and knowledge of the piano that has been a source of comfort, joy and healing in my life. I wish he could have heard my children play but I know what his reaction would’ve been. He would’ve given them a little tip to help them be better, then a hug and a smile and said, “beautiful.”