A few weeks ago (quiet possibly—or, exactly—when this blog went quiet for a month), we received a very special delivery.
A tall and lovely lady, sitting pretty in our living room, was gifted to us by a friend whose living arrangements were changing and needed the space our gal was taking up.
She is quite old, and quite a bit rusty; she was rather dusty and a little mildewy, and was in need of a bit of tuning and a few repairs. She is incredibly heavy, her innards held together by solid cast iron.
But most importantly, she is ours. Every last single key and every bit of crazed shellac and each ancient felt hammer that is held together with a song and prayer… it is all ours.
And we love her.
Things went quiet here for a bit while I realized a dream I’ve had since I was a very young girl sitting in front of an plastic electric mini-organ I won by selling girl scout cookies; I am learning how to play the piano.
Next week, my two eldest children and I will begin piano lessons. Although my kids are excited, it is clear that my enthusiasm far surpasses theirs. I suppose that if waiting for something for thirty some years (erHEM) doesn’t diminish your desire to learn, then there is bound to be some disparity in levels of passion. I hope that they’ll like it enough to stick with it for a while. They are already learning, by my fat-fingered, two-semesters-of-study example, that it takes a lot of practice and patience to make something that begins to sound like music. It might take me three weeks to learn four bars of a simple tune, but by george, I waited thirty years to begin, so I can wait a few more before I expect results.
Someone remind me of that when I still can’t play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star after my thirtieth lesson.