Piano lessons

Polished and dark, the baby grand sat solidly in the corner of the living room. As you entered the front door the stairs rose directly in front of you across a small vestibule. To the right, along the wall, sat a small slant-front desk with cubbyholes and tiny drawers. The desk was forbidden territory, but the piano was not. A black and white vase always perched atop the piano, and a large fern on a stand sat nearby. Sunday afternoon light from the front window slanted across the keys as I practiced.

I cannot remember how old I was when I learned how to play, probably five or six. I was given a scale fingering book, and my chubby fingers picked at the notes. Every Good Boy Deserves Favor. It was how I was taught the line notes, and F-A-C-E were the notes inside the lines. I still remember the notes from the lessons in the language of a child.

My first piano teacher fades from memory, but by the time I got to the second teacher, I knew the basic notes. Mrs. Dusseldorf was a flat faced elderly German woman from a nearby town, and I was dropped off for my hour lesson at mid-morning. Her tiny apartment was behind a shop of some kind, and its doorway opened into an alley. It was very clean, and very dark. I was petrified of Mrs. Dusseldorf. I can still hear her counting out the cadence… VUN and Doo and ZRHee and VOUR and VUN And Doo and ZHRREE And Forr… Up and down the scales we went, but apparently I couldn’t stay in time, or I was a bit undisciplined in my practice for her tastes, because after just two or three unhappy attempts to learn from her, my grandmother moved my lessons to our church, and the choir director, Mr. Wilkes, taught me from that point on.

Other than questioning at one point whether it was really necessary to stick my tongue out in concentration to read and play the notes, he taught me well. I took my lessons on Saturday morning, and always brought a tuna sandwich for my lunch. The Sunday School hall was empty and dark, not at all like the usual Sunday bustle.

I progressed to playing recitals, formally attired now in a frothy pink confection of a dress, black mary-janes, and with blond curls tamed and ribboned. Chopin and Beethoven became familiar friends as my fingers grew nimble with practice on grandmother’s baby grand.

My dad, an accomplished player and singer, would sometimes yell from the back room. “Flat!! Flat!!” when I hit a wrong note. He played mostly by ear, and it was a treat for us when he would sit down, looking rough and incongruous at that elegant piano, and play and sing. He had to be begged to do so, as if he realized that upon hearing his talent one might question why he tinkered with cars and trucks and railroads instead of playing concert halls. He must have learned from a book of Stephen Foster songs, because favorites were “My Old Kentucky Home” and “Way Down Upon the Suwannee River”, ringing out in his strong, clear tenor voice. I hoped to be able to play as well as Dad one day. My tastes ran more to classical music, though, and I continued to practice, moving to Tchaikovsky and Bach.

Of course, the Baptist hymnal stayed open on the piano at all times, and one day, after hearing a cute boy from the church choir sing a solo rendition of “In the Image of God”, I learned and practiced that song over and over again. Today, forty years later, I can still pick it out on the keys.